


A Good Man

by bea_meupscotty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Not Epilogue Compliant, chaotic bisexual Pansy Parkinson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2019-11-23 22:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18158123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_meupscotty/pseuds/bea_meupscotty
Summary: Ginny paused, her eyes narrowing as she watched Malfoy intently, mind whirring. “So you’ll help me then?”“Help you what?” Malfoy said, staring at her as if they’d jumped conversation topics entirely and he wasn’t sure what they were talking about any longer.“You’ll help me make Harry jealous.”... or the Draco/Ginny fake dating story no one asked for but I wrote anyway.





	1. Wild, Idiotic Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself. 
> 
> OK, well. I guess a few things. There's a lot of angst going around in the other things I'm working on (*cough* I promise I'm working on), and I love me some angst, but I've been having a rough couple of months and I needed a break from the angst, and somehow here we are, with me starting an entirely self-indulgent, completely ridiculous D/G fake dating story. I am having a hugely fun time writing it, and I hope you have a good time reading it, and if not... well, this one's kind of entirely for me. 
> 
> As always, I don't own any of these characters. They all belong to JKR. I don't make any money off of this stuff.

“And then I swerved to the left, but leaned to the right, y’know, a little of this kind of action, and just blew right past the Bludger AND the other Chasers, just right past ‘em—”

“Mm,” Ginny grunted noncommittally, eyes darting around the small balcony she’d managed to get herself trapped on with Mr. I-Could’ve-Been-A-Quidditch-Star, with no chance of escape apparent. The worst part was that it had been entirely her own fault. He’d been so attractive, and she’d had just a few too many glasses of champagne—okay and a shot or four of Firewhiskey she’d talked the bartender into giving her—and she’d been feeling lost and lonely. How was she supposed to know this guy was also a total asshole? It was her first of these stupid Harpies publicity events since The Talk (as it had come to be known in her head); she didn’t usually have to navigate the morass of obnoxious men when she had a war hero on her arm and his ring on her finger. 

“Impressive, right?” Pushy was saying, and while he’d been telling his story he’d encroached a few more inches into her personal space. Ginny realized with an internal curse that he’d also somehow managed to back her up against the balcony railing, and now he was placing his hands on either side of her body, leaning forward dangerously close. 

“I—uh, sure,” Ginny muttered, inching to one side and hoping he’d get the hint. 

“So what do you say to getting out of this stuffy old event and heading back to my place?” 

Ginny grimaced, her body tensing. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

The man in front of her just shot her a lazy grin, one eyebrow raised. “Why not? Surely you’re feeling lonely without Potter… and I have moves off the Quidditch pitch as well.” 

Ginny saw red. She was used to pushy men, entitled men, men who wouldn’t take no for an answer—she was a Harpy for Merlin’s sake—but mentioning Harry? It was a low blow. And _fuck_ whoever this guy was, regardless of rich or well-connected he was to be at the fundraiser, she thought, hand going for her wand, when she heard a familiar voice from behind the looming bulk of her wannabe paramour. 

“Oh, Sebastian. Look what the c—” Draco Malfoy paused, cool grey eyes flicking over the scene with interest. Ginny’s hand twitched at her wand again, but Malfoy was making his way across the balcony with a determined look on his face, speaking again, and his next words left Ginny completely gobsmacked. 

“Gin, love, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” 

Ginny was left entirely speechless as Draco Malfoy made his way over to her, coldly shouldering past the man she assumed was named Sebastian in order to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her against his side before her reflexes, slowed by the alcohol, could jump away from him. He leaned down to brush his lips against her hairline, down to her ear, and whisper so softly it was barely a breath, “Play along. You’re welcome, Weasley.” 

Ginny’s hand clenched into a fist behind Malfoy’s back, but the aggressive Sebastian seemed to be shrinking back from Malfoy, head cocked in slight confusion. And, with the slight distraction from her blinding rage that Malfoy’s intervention had provided, Ginny could admit to herself that Gwenog would kill her if she hexed or punched either of the two men at an official Harpies event. Worse, probably bench her for a game. Maybe even two. So Ginny just leaned her head on Malfoy’s shoulder and gave him a vapid smile, eyelashes fluttering. 

“And now you’ve found me,” she cooed, leaning up to press her lips to his cheek before skating over to his own ear. “I had it under control, Ferret. Push it and you’ll lose your favorite appendage,” she murmured for his ears only, and the satisfied grin that crept across her face was entirely genuine as she noticed him swallow heavily at her threat. 

Pushy, for his part, was staring at the two of them in growing confusion, before he shook his head as if clearing it and narrowed his eyes at the two of them. “Very funny, Malfoy, but the game’s up. Let Ginny and I get back to our conversation.” 

“What game?” Malfoy responded innocently, brows raised in the picture of genuine confusion. “Besides, Sebastian, anything you have to say to my—” he choked slightly as Ginny dug her nails threateningly into his lower back—“dearest Ginny, you can say to me.” 

With a roll of his eyes, the stubborn wizard turned his gaze to Ginny. “Oh c’mon. Like I’d actually believe you’re with _him_. He’s not your type,” Sebastian asserted confidently, not noticing or not acknowledging the danger in Ginny’s sharpening gaze. 

“Oh? And you know this because you know me so well?” Ginny said, lips pressed together firmly. Malfoy at least had the sense to recognize the warning signs, likely from being on the receiving end of them a time or five at Hogwarts, and one of his hands slipped down to encircle her wand hand warningly. 

“Well, yeah. You’re Ginny Weasley. You don’t do the bad boy thing—you’re the hero’s girl.” 

Of course he thought he knew her. Since the war it had been all interviews with the Prophet and spreads in Witch Weekly and questions after games about her love life. Harry hated the spotlight, and most of the time Ginny didn’t mind stepping in and filling some of that gap, but this was what made her blood boil—the sense that everyone had that they knew her. That because they knew she was a Weasley, and Harry was her brother’s best friend, and she’d had a crush on him when she was young, and he’d saved her, and then they’d grown up and they’d dated, that they knew her whole story, the whole bloody fairytale, that they knew _her_. But the worst part of all of it was that he was right. She didn’t do the bad boy thing, hadn’t even at Hogwarts. The closest she’d gotten was Dean bloody Thomas, because Tom had been enough bad boy for several lifetimes. But she wasn’t the hero’s girl anymore either, because the _hero_ , the quintessential hero, her hero, had needed a break. Ginny wasn’t sure if she was the girl in the Witch Weekly stories and the Prophet articles, but she knew for certain that she hated nothing more than the idea that this stupid pompous arse could understand her at all from those stupid interviews, so she met his gaze with a slow grin that hinted at viciousness. 

“Well maybe you don’t know me very well at all, then.” And with that, she turned to Malfoy, slid one hand around the back of his neck, and pressed her lips against his. For a moment he was stiff against her, but then she felt his lips curl into an amused smirk against her own and he tugged her close against him, leaning into her and deepening the kiss. 

The first thing she noticed, immense relief flooding through her body, was that it felt nothing like kissing Harry. No painful memories to pang through her chest, no risk of falling into a dangerous fantasy. No—Malfoy was taller than Harry, which meant she had to press up on her toes and lean further into him, changing the angle of the kiss. He smelled like expensive cologne and leather and wood, not like Harry, like sunshine and earth and home. Even better, Malfoy tasted… different. He tasted like champagne and mint, sweet and fresh and brand new. She felt the swipe of his tongue against her bottom lip and a gentle graze of his teeth and she shivered, leaning back to break the kiss with a gasp. 

It was at that precise moment when she noticed the flash of a camera and looked up with wild eyes to see an unfamiliar witch grinning wildly as she scampered back into the main event area. Ginny started after her but was stopped by Malfoy’s hand, tight on her hip, and, trying to wrangle her racing pulse, Ginny turned back to Malfoy, ready to shove him away from her, when she noticed that he wasn’t looking at her but at her initial aggressor, who was looking surly but still hadn’t left. 

“Answer enough for you, Sebastian? I hope so, because much as you might like the show, I’m not in a generous mood,” Malfoy was drawling, and while the expression on his face was pure indolent smirk, there was a hint of something steely in his eyes that made Sebastian back up, hands in the air. 

“Point made, Malfoy. Enjoy your night,” he said stiffly with a nod to Ginny before he exited through the same door as the photographer. 

Ginny spun immediately and hit Malfoy in the shoulder with a hard, closed fist, relishing in his shocked grunt and the way his opposite hand rose to rub at it. “Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, giving her a glare. “Most people say you’re welcome.” 

“I didn’t ask for or need your help, you arrogant arsehole. I was dealing with him on my own.” Ginny crossed her arms, trying to focus her racing mind on her anger at Malfoy and not her endless worries about the mess they’d— _he’d_ —created. 

“But my way was so much more fun.” Malfoy was leaning back on the balcony railing, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, as if this had all been some sort of game. Which, given that it was Malfoy, it probably had been. Ginny glowered.

“No, kneeing him in the bollocks so hard his grandchildren felt it would have been more fun.” 

Ginny chose to ignore the sudden laughter that escaped before Malfoy managed to stifle it and turn his attention back to her. “Fair point, Weasel. But my way also didn’t involve spending a night at the Ministry for assault and a few games watching your shitty second-string Chaser muck up your plays.” 

Malfoy had a point, but the only indication Ginny could give to conceding it was a grunt. “My way wouldn’t have involved a bloody photographer getting a picture of us… ” Ginny ended on a disgusted note, waving her hands wildly, unable to force past her lips the words to describe what precisely had occurred between the them. 

“Involved? Together? Locking lips? Snogging? Sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g?” Malfoy taunted, the smirk back on his face. 

“Yes,” Ginny hissed from between clenched teeth, leaning forward with a clenched fist again, and Malfoy had the sense to put his hands up in mock surrender. 

“Who bloody cares, Weasley? The papers will have a field day for a few days, maybe a week, we’ll both decline to comment, and then they’ll move on the newest big thing.” 

Ginny sucked in a deep breath through clenched teeth, trying to force herself to hold it together, to see the reason in Malfoy’s words, but there was only one thing hammering through her brain. She groaned, letting her head drop into her waiting palms, and she didn’t realize she’d said his name out loud until she heard Malfoy’s startled cough. 

“Scarhead? Seriously? I, together with the rest of Britain, thought that was over.” 

“Well, yes, but—” Ginny stopped, not sure what she was even going to say to Draco bloody Malfoy about her and Harry’s relationship, about all of the history and emotion that lay after that ‘but’. 

“But what? You and Potter broke up, but you’re waiting for him like some pathetic little girl?” 

From the look on his face, Malfoy seemed to be torn between puzzlement and disdain, and Ginny suddenly crossed her arms, shoulders hunching slightly as she tried to avoid the pang of recognizing her own feelings in Malfoy’s. But she wasn’t about to explain to him, couldn’t explain to him, how this was different, how it was one thing to move on when she was a kid with a crush and she needed to prove to Harry and to herself that she was more than her crush on him, and now, when it wasn’t that Harry had been her whole world, but she’d had a life, a complete life, with her own family and friends and career, but one that had a perfect Harry-shaped hole, and she needed him to know that once he’d gotten his chance to live, to explore, that he could slide right back into that spot in her perfect future. 

“I mean, he hasn’t exactly had any qualms about being seen out sowing his wild oats,” Malfoy said in that same disdainful drawl, and Ginny felt a flash of rage tear through her, at Malfoy for this stupid situation, for his stupid face and stupid dismissal of her, at Harry for needing a break to find himself outside of the fight against Voldemort, which apparently included finding out what he’d been missing out on when he’d been too busy trying not to die to date, and for herself, for letting herself get jealous when she had no right to be and for letting Malfoy rile her up. The rage manifested itself in the form of a sharp, sudden jab at Malfoy’s gut, and she let herself grin at his groan of pain as he doubled over. 

“You bloody fucking harpy,” he growled at her, still hunched. 

“Well-spotted, Malfoy.” 

“Have it your way, then, you bint. Go tell precious Potter that the big bad Malfoy took advantage of you. I’d have thought you’d have been thrilled to have a chance to kill him with jealousy, especially since he didn’t even notice you the first time around until he realized somebody else might have something he didn’t.” 

“Go to hell, you bastard. Harry’s not like th—wait, what do you mean, he didn’t even notice me the first time around until he was jealous?” 

Malfoy snorted, finally standing up, though he kept his arms in front of him in a defensive position. “Merlin’s tits, do you have to have your head entirely up your are where Potter is concerned to even get into Gryffindor, or is it something that comes afterward?” Ginny’s hands clenched into fists again and Malfoy shrank back. “Potter knew you had a crush on him. You were his best friend’s little sister, the only girl in your family. I’m sure your family had your wedding china picked out from Day 1. It wasn’t until you were dating… ah, I bloody can’t remember, some boy who wasn’t Potter, that he started to notice you, and glare daggers at whatshisname all class period.” At this, Malfoy’s smirk returned. “He may have saved the world, but Potter’s still a caveman at heart.” 

Ginny stilled, thinking about Malfoy’s words. Harry _had_ only started noticing her after she’d begun dating. A little when she dated Michael, but more when she’d dated Dean. She’d thought she’d finally started growing into her looks, helped by a generous growth spurt around that time, but maybe it was just that Dean was a Gryffindor too, in Harry’s year, and they’d been in front of him all the time, for him to notice that she was a girl that people found desirable and he’d have to pull himself together and go after her if he wanted her. 

“And you’re saying I should be trying to make Harry jealous now?” 

Malfoy grimaced, looking like he’d just swallowed a pint of Skele-Gro. “Should is a strong word, Weasel. While the thought of you popping out tiny Potters at the rate your family breeds is enough to make me shudder, I wouldn’t mind being able to read my morning Prophet without having to wade through at least a page of musings on Potter’s latest dating escapades.” 

Ginny paused, her eyes narrowing as she watched Malfoy intently, mind whirring. “So you’ll help me then?” 

“Help you what?” Malfoy said, staring at her as if they’d jumped conversation topics entirely and he wasn’t sure what they were talking about any longer.

“You’ll help me make Harry jealous.” 

Malfoy was choking—on what, she had no idea, since he hadn’t had any food or drink, but he was coughing furiously, eyes watering as she pounded on his chest before he shoved her away. “You’ll leave bruises, you bint. And what in Merlin’s name gave you the idea I’d help you make Scarhead jealous?” 

Ginny stepped back, keeping her eyes fixed on him with a determined gleam. It was a crazy plan, but now that she’d thought about it, with the advantage of all of that Firewhiskey and champagne swirling through her veins, opening her mind, it was actually brilliant. Harry had been avoiding her ever since The Talk, answering her owls with vague platitudes about how he’d been and keeping her relatives around as a buffer between them at the Burrow, the better for him to ‘get space’. Well—this would get his attention. And make him realize that he wasn’t the only one who could do a little exploring and finding themselves on this break. And, well… 

“I thought you wanted to stop reading about Harry’s latest date in the Prophet every day. We’re agreed there. And when have you ever passed up a chance to get under Harry’s skin?” She felt a loose, impulsive grin grow on her face, already feeling a little bit lightheaded at the idea. It was absolutely bloody insane, but—when was the last time she’d done something absolutely insane? She felt a cool breeze stir and could’ve sworn she heard faint laughter—maybe it was Fred’s ghost, because only with supernatural twin assistance could she have come up with something this completely crazy. 

Malfoy was looking at her oddly, but he did give her an appreciative grin at her last comment. “I would pay 100 Galleons just to see the look on Scarhead’s stupid face when he sees the picture from tonight.”

“So you’ll do it.” It wasn’t a question. 

“What does ‘it’ entail?” Malfoy asked, ever the cautious, plotting Slytherin. 

“Just… pretend to date me. You won’t have to actually touch me—ugh, I think I just retched in my mouth a little thinking about it—except for some cursory touching for the cameras in public. I—I don’t know for how long—” 

“Potter will be on his knees begging for you in two months, tops.” Malfoy was smirking at her, amusement dancing in his grey eyes. “He hates losing, especially to me.”

Ginny frowned at that. “Harry’s never lost anything to you before,” she shot back with a dismissive glare, but the corners of Malfoy’s mouth were turning up in a wicked grin.

“Exactly.”

As his words sunk in, Ginny laughed, at the wild, idiotic perfection of it all. 

“I don’t know if it’ll work though. I mean, would anyone believe that we’re dating? Us? It’s impossible,” Malfoy said, brows furrowed as he stared at the stone in front of him. But he was thinking of logistics now, of how to make it work, and not whether to go through with it, which she knew from a lifetime spent getting wrapped up in Fred and George’s schemes meant she had him hooked. 

“Anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve, Malfoy,” she said, leaning forward with her own wicked grin. 

He stilled, just watching her carefully for a few moments, before he sighed and nodded. “I’m in, Weasley. Only for the spectacular meltdown Potter will have, which I can only hope will happen in public. Now,” he said, pressing his palms together like he was beginning a lecture, “we’ll need to come up with a full plan. Not here, though—we’ve already been talking too publicly, and we’re lucky no one else has come out here. Somewhere private.” 

“You don’t get to know where I live,” Ginny said suddenly, tensing at the thought of Draco Malfoy knowing where she slept. “And I’m not going to Malfoy Manor.” 

“Fine,” Malfoy said with an exasperated sigh. “I have a flat in London. The kind with neighbors,” he continued on a grimace, while Ginny was mentally replacing the word ‘neighbors’ with ‘witnesses’, “Think you can survive setting foot there?” 

“Sure,” Ginny said, relaxing slightly, surprised at his compromise. 

“Come by early tomorrow morning. By Floo. And bring those clothes. You can leave through the front door and make it look like you went home with me tonight.”

Ginny opened her mouth to protest, but found herself shutting it a few moments later. It was actually a solid plan, so far as fake dating plans went. And the best part about it was that she didn’t _actually_ have to go home with Malfoy. 

“Tomorrow morning then,” she said, taking the card with his address on it that he’d taken out of his robes and offered to her. 

“Tomorrow morning,” he said with a grin, and turned to walk back into the main room. 

Right before he reached the door, Ginny called out. “Hey Malfoy, wait!” 

He paused dutifully, turning around with an arched brow. 

“I—uh… Why did you step in? With Sergio?” 

“Sergio… do you mean Sebastian?” Malfoy asked, a glint of humor in his grey eyes.

“Sure—Sebastian, Sergio, Scourgify, whatever.”

A corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched upward. “You don’t believe that I could just be a gentleman who wouldn’t dare to let a lady in need go without rescuing?” 

Ginny snorted in an extraordinarily unladylike manner, grinning at the slight wince Malfoy gave. “You’re not a gentleman and I’ll eat my broom if you think I’m a lady.” 

“Much as I’d like to see you try… Fine. Sebastian stole my date to the Malfoy New Years’ Ball fourth year.” He looked like the cat who’d eaten the canary at getting his petty revenge, six long years later, and Ginny laughed uproariously at that. 

“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” she said at last, and he shot her a grin over his shoulder as he left the balcony, with her close behind a few seconds later. 

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Instead of having to fight off memories of attending with Harry, Ginny found her thoughts preoccupied with planning, anticipation of the look on Harry’s face, overblown scenarios in which Harry showed up on her doorstep, literally on his knees, begging her to take him back. She felt better than she had since The Talk—it felt good to have a plan, to take action. She remembered to shoot glances Malfoy’s direction periodically, giving him her best coyly lowered lashes and smoldering stares, and feeling his eyes on her in return. When she finally left, she thought she might not even need to break out any wine and ice cream—she was too focused on what the morning would bring.


	2. There's A Cat

The next morning, with her head throbbing and her mind still spinning a little from the hangover, Ginny stood in front of her Floo with last night’s heels and dress robes in one hand and the Prophet tucked under her arm, looking down at the little old-fashioned calling card that had Draco Malfoy’s London address on it, wondering for the approximately five-hundredth time since she’d gotten home last night what on earth she’d been thinking. When she’d woken up and had a few glasses of water, she’d been fully prepared to go back to sleep and completely ignore the half-baked plan she’d made with Malfoy, throw his card in the fire and if he ever dared to bring it up again, laugh in his face and insist it had all been a joke. But then the Prophet had been delivered, and with it, on page 3, she’d discovered that the regular tidy two-column article about Harry’s social life (a Puddlemere game with Cho Chang, this time) now shared a page with a flashy half-page spread about _her_ , most of which was taken up by The Picture. The photographer had gotten the shot of them at precisely the worst moment—not the start, when Ginny had clearly been angry and Malfoy had been stiff and confused, but at the end. Picture-Ginny was leaning against Picture-Malfoy’s chest, and Picture-Malfoy had one of her hands in his, and the kiss looked chaste, almost sweet, until it was very apparent that Picture-Malfoy tugged her closer and tilted his head just so, and Picture-Ginny broke off with a feminine-looking gasp. There was no keeping this from her friends and, worse, from her family. She’d groaned, wondering when the owls and Floo calls and the knocks on her door would start, and wondering what she’d say. She could always tell the truth, but—she’d thought her family wouldn’t take the breakup well, would be angry with her or take Harry’s side, and she’d been so wrong she wished she’d been right. They were on eggshells around her, like they hadn’t been since the summer after her first year, all glances out of the corners of their eyes and questions about how she _was_ , really, how was she _doing_ , with just a bit too much implication behind them to be comfortable.

And sitting there, thinking of looking at her Mum and Dad’s faces and explaining to them the champagne and the Firewhiskey and the feeling of being alone, and getting wrapped up in a handsome man who was actually awful and then feeling like she’d needed to kiss Draco Malfoy, of all people, to prove something to the tabloid writers, to herself, well—if she thought they’d be angry, she’d be able to bear it it without question, but she didn’t think she could handle overflowing concern and stifled disappointment. So she’d grabbed her things and made her way to the Floo, and now—she was going to Draco Malfoy’s flat to plan their dating life.

* * *

When she stepped into the flat itself, brushing soot off of her, her first thought was that it was wildly, stereotypically on-brand, and she was shoving a fist into her mouth to cover her sudden nervous giggle. The ceilings were high, the floors dark hardwood, the furniture of the sitting room she’d emerged in all dark leather, and the room itself was mostly bare of decoration. It looked expensive and cold, just like Malfoy.

The only surprise was in the form of a haughty-looking Siamese cat sitting in the center of the room, staring at her with a flicker of cold curiosity. 

“Oh! Kitty!” In just a few moments, Ginny was on her knees beside the cat, holding out a hand and coaxing it into petting range. A minute or so of pets and murmured compliments later, Ginny was on her back in the middle of the floor, the cat curled up contentedly on her chest. She was so distracted she barely even noticed the sound of Malfoy’s slippered feet padding down the hall and into the room. 

“Weasley?” He sounded taken aback, and she sat up just slightly so that she could look at him. He was wearing a fancy matching pajama set, probably silk, the bastard, and holding a piece of toast, a look of shock and horror on his face. 

“I didn’t know you had a cat.” 

“He doesn’t like people,” Malfoy said automatically, the horror on his face growing as he took in Ginny, clad in dirty Muggle trainers, yoga pants, and an old Weird Sisters sweatshirt that had once belonged to Tonks, laying on his parlor floor with his apparently people-hating cat on her chest. 

“He warmed up to me all right,” Ginny said stubbornly, giving the cat a scratch behind his left ear, gratified to hear the cat’s purring deepen. 

“You probably bewitched him.” 

“What’s his name?” 

A muscle in Malfoy’s jaw twitched. “Armand.”

Ginny gasped in delight and leaned up to coo at him. “Armand, huh? What a lovely lovely name for such a regal little kitty. I had a Pygmy Puff named Arnold, you know,” she carried on, continuing to talk to Armand only and not his owner. “You need a nickname though.” 

“He does not. Armand Malfoy was the first of the British Malfoys. He came over with William the Conqueror, he won the ancestral Malfoy lands, and he most certainly never had a nickname.” Malfoy sounded stricken at the very thought, but Ginny was ignoring him in favor of scratching under Armand’s chin. 

“Hmm… Armand, Armand, Armand… Monty, d’you think? Monty?” The cat flicked one ear back and Ginny smiled up at it. “You like Monty, huh?” 

“Weasley, get off my floor and stop trying to give my cat an inane nickname. What are you doing here?” 

With a huff, Ginny scooped the cat into her arms and stood up, giving him one last nuzzle before putting him on the ground gently and watching as he padded away down the hallway, not even sparing the pair a glance backward. “You invited me here, you utter arsehat, or have you forgotten already?” She leaned down to grab the morning’s Prophet from where it had been discarded when she’d seen the cat, flipping to page three and waving the picture of them at Malfoy. 

He swallowed heavily, looking first at the picture, then the piece of toast in his hand, and finally at his retreating cat, as if one of them would have answers. “I thought… you were drunk. I didn’t realize—”

“Oh, no, Draco Malfoy,” Ginny said, advancing on him threateningly. “You don’t get to back out of this. You agreed to help me, told me it would be fine, we’d make a plan, and when you did I _didn’t_ go chasing after that photographer to hex her to Bloody Sunday for taking this picture.”

Malfoy groaned, head falling back heavily. “I was drunk too!” he protested, as if that would convince her. Hearing her advance another step, he looked back at her with wide eyes, gaze darting to her wand hand. “For fuck’s sake, Weasley... You can’t honestly think we can pull this off.” 

Ginny crossed her arms, regarding him with her chin held high. “Why not? The picture’s out there already. You said yourself that Harry’d be so jealous he’d be at my doorstep in two months—” 

“If that,” she heard Malfoy mutter under his breath. 

“So what’s the problem?” 

Malfoy was staring at her with wide eyes, shaking his head slightly, but Ginny wasn’t backing down. She’d come this far, and now that she’d talked herself so thoroughly into this being the solution to her problems, the easy way to force Harry to stop avoiding her and bring his decision about just how much time he needed to ‘find himself’ to a head, without hurting anyone in the process or messing up the careful spot for Harry in her life because it was all fake, she couldn’t bear to let go of the idea and go back to trying to live her life with Harry fluttering as a constant uncertainty at the edges. 

“You’re absolutely bloody mental, you know that?” 

“”Course I am,” Ginny said with a cheeky grin, and Malfoy groaned and sank onto the couch, eyes closed in surrender. 

“How did we meet? I mean, re-meet. To start dating.”

Ginny started at that. “Um, does it matter? I figured we’d just go out a few times and get some pictures taken.” 

Malfoy opened his eyes to shoot her a dubious look. “And you really think both of us can avoid answering any questions about our relationship? From everyone? For two months?”

Ginny opened her mouth to protest and snapped it shut just as quickly when she realized he was right. Her brothers would break down her door and hold her captive if she went gallivanting around with Draco Malfoy and refused to say absolutely anything about it. “So what would you propose then, oh wise Malfoy?” 

That earned her a smirk that she wanted to smack off of his face. “Knew you were a smart one, Weasley.” She made a rude gesture in his direction and he just laughed, though he made sure to scoot out of her reach. “Well… given that you’re you and I’m me, I don’t think we’d have much luck if we tried for a sudden reconnection story. And way too implausible that one of us has had a secret crush on the other. Especially since, given the Scarhead situation, it’d have to be me with the crush.” 

“Oh, you mean to tell me you didn’t spend your Hogwarts years moping about the dungeons over your forbidden love for little old bloodtraitor me?” 

To his credit, Malfoy carried on as if he hadn’t heard her, except for a muscle twitch in his jaw. “So our best bet is that we ran into each other out somewhere, got into an argument and things got… heated.” He smirked, and Ginny groaned. “It’ll be good for the short time period too. Hate turned to lust that burned out quickly.” 

“It is the most plausible.” Malfoy shot her a lascivious grin that had Ginny faux-gagging. “I didn’t say it was actually plausible, Ferret. I said it was the most plausible of our potential options. Merlin,” she said, dropping onto the end of the couch opposite him and running a hand through her tangled hair, “what will I say to my family—” 

But she paused, because she realized she knew exactly what she’d say to her family, and exactly how they’d respond, and it made her heart sink. Because, on the whole, they’d be _happy_ for her. Concerned about her mental health, maybe, and suspicious as all hell of Malfoy’s intentions, but—well, as far as real danger, any doubts people may have had after the Malfoys’ defection at the end of the war had been erased by Harry’s testimony about Draco and his mum’s actions, and the ensuing Ministry regime under which the Malfoys had been thoroughly de-fanged. As for Ginny herself, most of her family members would just be delighted to see her showing any signs of life after the not-a-breakup with Harry. Even if it was with a Malfoy, practically their sworn enemy. 

“Say, why aren’t you concerned about what your family will say?” Ginny said, turning sharply to look at the Malfoy whose couch she was currently sharing. 

He was staring at the ceiling and gave a lazy shrug. “Oh no, I’m ruining my family’s honor and legacy! Nothing I haven’t heard before. Not like there’s much left to ruin.” He didn’t even bother trying to mask the bitterness in his voice, and it had Ginny’s hackles raised.

“Yeah, well, it’s your own fault,” she said sharply.

“I know,” he said simply, after a long pause, face still turned to the ceiling. Somehow, his answer unsettled her, and she turned away from him, needing to break off whatever honesty he’d opened between them and go back to more familiar ground. 

“I, uh… I spent a night or two out at the pubs in Muggle London the week or two after Harry and I… talked,” she said lamely, “so we could’ve met there.” 

He looked at her with disbelief written plainly on his features. “Me? In Muggle London?” 

“Well, it’s the best way to make sure there’s no one who should’ve seen us when we met to come forward and say we didn’t! Unless you have a better idea.” 

He seemed to stew for a minute before he grunted his assent. “Fine. It’s a decent idea.” 

“We didn’t mention it to anyone earlier because… erm… We were embarrassed.” 

Malfoy shot a pointed glance at her ratty sweatshirt and tangled hair. “Definitely.” 

Ginny seethed for a moment before an idea came to her, and she continued with a beneficent grin. “But then you saw me at the Harpies’ event last night, and I looked so radiantly beautiful that you couldn’t bear for one more moment for the rest of the world not to know how you felt about me.” 

She thought she could actually hear Malfoy’s teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw. “But of course.” 

Ginny sighed, wheels turning in her mind. “So… what’s next then?” Malfoy grunted in answer, but when she looked over, he at least also appeared to be thinking, so she let the nonanswer go. Frowning, she swung her legs up, and with a twist turned herself so that she was laying upside down, her legs tucked over the back of the couch and her head dangling over the edge of the seat, arms tucked behind her head. 

“What the fuck, Weasley?” 

Ginny leaned up, feeling mischievous satisfaction at the look of horrified disgust on Malfoy’s face as he took in her posture. 

“It helps me think. Luna says it’s because it increases blood flow to the brain. It’s also aces for building core strength,” she said, demonstrating a few sit-ups for him before giving a dismissive glance in the general direction of his torso. “Looks like you should try it sometime.” 

Malfoy looked as if she’d just suggested he try rolling in dung and setting himself on fire. “I would never do something so absurd. And my core strength is fine, Weasley.” He rested a hand defensively on his stomach, as if to reassure himself. 

Letting her head fall back, Ginny gave a small shrug. “Whatever, Malfoy. You don’t have to, if you’re so afraid a Weasley might be better than you.” 

And really, it made no sense at all that she could be better than him at something like dangling upside down on a couch, but his buttons were so transparently easy to press—giant red flashing ones—so _of course_ in a heartbeat he was dangling upside down next to her, firmly scowling.

“Not better than me. My core strength is magnificent,” he said with a glare in her direction, but she just shrugged, kicking her feet. There was a beat, and then—“I hate this.” 

“Giving up already, Malfoy?” 

“I hate you.” Another pause. “First, after I get out of this bloody idiotic position, I’ll owl Blaise to make sure there are photographers out to get a picture of you leaving.” 

Ginny raised an eyebrow at the ceiling. “You’ll tell him that it’s fake and we need publicity?” She was beginning to feel both a little angry at Malfoy for already fading in his commitment to the facade, and at herself for not thinking about just telling a friend or two, when he interrupted her.

“Of course not. But Blaise is an irredeemable gossip, and I happen to know that his latest conquest is a Witch Weekly intern. If I owl him and say that he absolutely shouldn’t come over until late this afternoon because there’s a girl here, definitely no one he knows, nothing to be concerned about but just no one I want him to meet, he’ll scent a story like blood in the water.” 

“Is this what Slytherin friendships are like? You all just manipulate each other in your little schemes?” 

“Only for you, my little Ginbug.” 

Ginny leaned over to smack Malfoy’s torso, hoping to catch him off-guard and make him slip, but his legs were too long, too securely hooked over the back of the couch, and, even worse, she realized with sinking disgust, his stomach was firm and taut through the silk of his pajama shirt. 

She shook her head, needing to firmly replace the fact that Malfoy had abs in her brain with her previous conviction that he was just a rich, pasty weakling. “You should come to my game tomorrow.” She heard a startled cough from next to her and frowned, continuing. “I mean, if we’ve gone public, it only makes sense. I’ll give you my box seats.” 

“No need,” Malfoy said in a faux-breezy tone. “I already have box seats.” 

At this, Ginny twisted, putting one hand on the floor as she turned to face Malfoy. “What do you mean you already have box seats to the game?”

“Hey, cheating!” Malfoy said, pointing at her arm, but she just glared at him. Finally, he mumbled something under his breath that came out in one long rush. 

“What did you say?” 

“I said…” Malfoy ground out through gritted teeth, “ _theHarpiesaremymum’sfavoriteteam_.” 

“Oh.” Ginny found herself at a loss for words, trying to imagine the icy, staid Narcissa Malfoy she’d gotten glimpses of enjoying something like a Quidditch match. “Well, at least maybe she’ll be excited you’re dating a Harpy.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes, no easy feat when one was hanging upside down. “Oh yes, that’ll almost make up for the fact that said Harpy is a dirt-poor, blood traitor Weasley who just got dumped by Harry bloody Potter.” 

Oh, _fuck_ no. In a moment, Ginny had slid from the couch, landing with practiced grace on her knees, and had grabbed Malfoy by the collar of his stupid silk pajamas to wrench his torso up and around to face her. 

“Hard no. No talking about the break, no talking about Harry more than is absolutely necessary.” 

Malfoy gulped, she could see the hard line of his adam’s apple bobbing through the pale skin of his neck, but she just gave him a small shake. “Okay, okay, you got it, Weasley!” She dropped him suddenly, and it was only quick reflexes that reminded her he’d once been a Seeker that let him catch himself on his palms before he smacked unceremoniously against his own hardwood floors. 

They were quiet for a minute, Ginny glowering at a spot in the corner while Malfoy disentangled himself from the couch and came to rest on the floor near her, leaning backwards against the sofa. After a few more minutes of silence, he turned to Ginny, clearing his throat softly. 

“So, I’m fully aware of and on board with the rule we just established a few minutes ago, so no need to throttle me again… but… you should probably get it all out there… just once. So we can tailor the plan. Need to know what buttons of Potter’s to press.”

He was still looking at her as if he was afraid she’d pounce and hex him any second, but after a few seconds further of glowering, Ginny sighed her resignation. He was right. It just made her want to throttle him more, but he was completely right. “Fine. It’s not a breakup, it’s a break.” 

“For how long?” Malfoy interrupted, but was silenced by a glare. 

“For as long as he needs, I guess. He—he just said that he felt like everything was moving so fast, like he’d gone from a life where everything was about fighting Voldemort right around to being an Auror and marrying me with barely a moment to breathe, and he just wanted to figure out what… who he was, without being the Chosen One, or part of the Golden Trio, or anything. And I mean, he’s right, we started dating when he was sixteen, it’s normal to have a minute to wonder if you’re missing out on something, to just need to make sure…” 

She dared look over at Malfoy, who had a blank look on his face. Suspiciously blank. 

“What? Come out with it.” 

Malfoy frowned deeply. “On the condition you don’t hex me. Or use your bare hands, heathen—no punching, no throttling. You’re asking for my opinion.” 

Ginny swallowed heavily, feeling like her throat was suddenly heavy and slimy. She didn’t care what Malfoy, of all people, thought about her relationship with Harry, but the very idea of talking about it, of hearing other people tell her inanities like, ‘he’ll come around!’ or ‘everyone goes through bumps in the road!’, was part of the reason she’d been holed up in her flat, not making waves and focusing on working hard and hoping the days passed quickly. So she took a deep breath and nodded, closing her eyes and steeling herself against whatever Malfoy was going to say. 

“I can’t believe you took that bullshit, even from Potter.” 

At that her eyes flew open, staring at him, but Malfoy was studiously avoiding meeting her eyes. 

“I mean, I get it, he’s the bloody hero, Harry Potter, Chosen One, savior, blah blah. And sure, he’s probably entitled to a quarter-life crisis or two. But, for Merlin’s sake… come on, a break, for as long as he needs to _find himself_? After you were engaged? It’s typical Potter—selfish, doing exactly what he thinks is best without any regard for anyone else, but it’s fine because he’s _Potter_.” 

Ginny was shocked at the amount of venom in Malfoy’s voice. Sure, she’d known he hated Harry—but she’d assumed that, when Malfoy had saved Harry’s life, and they’d managed to find some kind of truce, that the virulence would fade, just a childhood enmity buried under the weight of more important, adult considerations. Apparently not for Malfoy, and it was odd, because while people hadn’t really taken Harry’s side in things, no one had ever really done what Malfoy was doing either—planted himself firmly against Harry’s side. She wondered whether that meant Malfoy was on her side. Or another side? How many sides were there here? She blinked, dumbfounded, and Malfoy seemed to take her silence as some kind of answer, because he huffed and stood up, brushing toast crumbs off himself. 

“Anyway, it’s an easy sell. Potter wanted to know what he was missing out on—well, now he’ll be missing out on _you_. And you’ll remind him of that.” 

Ginny stood up, taking a tentative step closer to the blonde. “Hey Malfoy… Thanks.” 

Malfoy turned to her with a shrug of his shoulders, as if he was clearing something from his mind, and gave her a familiar nasty smirk. “The pleasure’s all mine. Why did I ever waste my time making buttons and writing songs to get under Potter’s skin when I could have just done this and made his and your brother’s heads explode?” 

Whatever brief moment of almost camaraderie between them obviously past, Ginny leaned over and elbowed Malfoy sharply in the ribs. “Because I’d have dangled you from the top of the Astronomy Tower by your balls, you arse.”

Malfoy winced, but was snickering as he scooted out of her reach. “Kinky, Weasley.”


	3. Self-Preservation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny goes home, and then plays Quidditch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it says on the tin - self-indulgent fake dating AU fun.

Ginny arrived back at her flat never more grateful for the elaborate wards she’d worked with Hermione to put up. Her apartment was blissfully quiet and devoid of staring people, especially after her walk in last night’s clothes to the nearest apparition point from Malfoy’s flat. She’d seen a very curious-looking witch trying poorly to conceal a large camera, and had pretended like she hadn’t noticed, instead fixing her best attempt at a giddy lovestruck smile across her face, though she was afraid she just came off looking as if she’d gone a bit loony. In any event, she’d felt conscious of the watchful eye of the witch and, as she’d continued her walk, more and more hidden eyes scrutinizing her, so it was with great relief that she collapsed onto her couch in her empty apartment, making a variety of unpleasant faces just because she could. 

Her blessed solitude was interrupted barely a minute later by the startling pop! of apparition in the middle of her living room. Scrambling for her wand, Ginny rolled off the couch and onto the ground with a painful thump, wand up and pointed at— 

“Hermione?” 

The brunette stood in the middle of the room, hair even wilder than usual, frowning at Ginny with intense concentration as if she were a difficult NEWT practice question. Ginny shifted uncomfortably. 

“Hermione, how did you— the wards—?” 

At this the witch gave Ginny a dismissive wave. “I helped you set them up, of course I can get past them. Now… finite incantatem!” 

Hermione waved her wand at Ginny, who merely glared back at the brunette. Frowning more deeply, Hermione continued to wave her wand at Ginny, casting a series of spells Ginny grew increasingly unfamiliar with, and culminating in one that resulted in the feeling that Ginny had just been dunked in ice water. 

With a splutter, Ginny scowled up at her friend, hoping the effect wasn’t ruined by her vicious shivering. “What in the bloody hell are you doing, Hermione?” 

At last, Hermione put away her wand, looking slightly confused and put out, and just a touch embarrassed. “Well, you see, I saw the Prophet this morning and, I needed to check for myself that you were alright, and weren’t under the influence of the Imperius or a love potion or some other nefarious spell.” 

“Did you honestly just say nefarious?” 

Hermione at least had the good sense to blush slightly.

“And hold on a second, the Prophet was out ages ago and I _just_ got home.” 

Hermione’s blush deepened, though she stuck her chin out stubbornly. “I came over earlier but you were gone, so I set my own ward to alert me when you got in.” At Ginny’s sharp glare, the brunette finally threw up her hands in exasperation. “It was for your own safety! You had been snogging Malfoy for Merlin’s sake! What else was I supposed to think? And do you know how hard it’s been to keep Ron from calling in the Aurors?” 

At that Ginny sighed deeply. The sheer fact that there had been no redheads pounding at her front door was likely a testament to Hermione’s damage control capabilities. “Thanks, Hermione. But yes, I am perfectly fine and in full control of all of my faculties.” 

Hermione, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, walked over to sit next to Ginny where the redhead had pulled herself back onto the couch and gave her a curious stare.

“So… Malfoy? Really, Gin?” 

Ginny swallowed. She was a perfectly adequate liar, after years of putting up with Fred and George and sneaking off to steal a broom to practice with and helping with the trio’s schemes, but it was very different to lie about something like this, to someone like Hermione, who’d actually grown to be her friend. 

“He’s not—he’s…” Ginny tried to force herself to say something like ‘he’s different’ or ‘he’s actually nice’ or even ‘he’s terribly hot’, but none of them would come out, so she just blushed furiously and hoped Hermione would connect whatever dots she could could on her own.

“He’s what?” Hermione still looked faintly befuddled.

“Well, you know…” Ginny made a vague motion with her hands, the flush deepening. 

Hermione just blinked at her, and Ginny made a small strangled noise. 

“He’s a terribly good shag, alright?” 

Hermione’s mouth had fallen open as she let out a soft “oh”, looking both confused and slightly ill. After that, the lies just kept pouring out of Ginny. 

“After the whole thing with Harry, I was… well, you know, I was going out quite a lot in the Muggle world, so that I didn’t have to see him or be reminded of him or get those weird sympathy stares, and one night I was pretty well drunk and of all people I saw Draco Malfoy and we got into it and then he kissed me and well… it was very hot. And one thing led to another. And another. And another few. We haven’t told anyone anything because we’ve been embarrassed.” 

Hermione looked stricken, and Ginny wasn’t sure if it was because Ginny was talking about Malfoy or whether her prudish friend would have been scandalized at the tale no matter who its subject was. 

“Are you satisfied now?” 

At that, the brunette finally blinked, brow creasing as she looked at Ginny closely. “I mean… am I satisfied that you’re not under some sort of spell? Yes. Am I satisfied with the fact that you’re… shagging… Malfoy?” The faint green tinge to her skin seemed answer enough. “Is it worth it?” 

At this Ginny nodded, avoiding Hermione’s eye as her blush deepened. Internally, she was thinking that if she was going to tell her friends that Malfoy was some sort of Slytherin sex god, he needed to be telling people she was equally earth-shattering. Ginny expected equality in this fake relationship. 

“I mean… I just…” Hermione waved her hands wildly, avoiding looking at Ginny before finally coming out with it. “I can’t imagine sex good enough to have it with Malfoy!” 

At this Ginny turned a horrified eye to her friend. She’d expended substantial mental energy avoiding thinking about her friend’s sex life with her brother, but at this confession she was forced to confront an unfortunate reality. While Malfoy had been a slimy git and a dreadful bully and then a very wan, pathetic looking prisoner and now was an obnoxious arrogant prat, Ginny could look back fondly on some of her more adventurous experiences with Harry and with Dean before him and agree that she’d have let Severus Snape himself touch her if he’d been doing those things with his tongue. Hermione, it appeared, had no such experiences. 

“Hermione… I… I can’t talk to you about this but you desperately need to… Yes, it can be that good!” 

The two witches stayed on the couch, looking pointedly away from each other, both with deep blushes of embarrassment staining their skin. 

“I should go,” Hermione said finally, standing up suddenly. “I… I’ll keep Ron at bay for a bit, and the rest of them.” 

“Thanks, Hermione. I have a match tomorrow and I just want to focus on that.” 

“Of course.” 

“Erm, well, bye then.” 

Hermione paused, looking back at the redhead, and took a deep breath. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, but… if you’re happy, Ginny, then we’re all happy for you. Even if it takes the rest of them some time to show it.” 

At the crack of apparition, Ginny groaned and sank back on the couch.

* * *

Hermione kept her promise and somehow managed to hold back the tidal wave of curiosity that Ginny was certain her brothers were amassing, leaving Ginny in peace to concentrate and prepare for her match. The next day dawned bright and early, and Ginny was at the pitch warming up with the sun. She supposed she should have been even slightly anxious about the fact that Malfoy and his mother would be in attendance, ostensibly in support of her, and that she might have to make some gesture towards them, but Ginny’s entire focus was on the match ahead. She barely even noticed when the stands began to fill while the players were still warming up. It was only when her name was called and she heard a loud cheer in an unfamiliar voice that she glanced up and noticed two heads of white-blonde hair, Malfoy hanging nearly out of the box with an obnoxiously smug grin on his face at the attention his cheers were drawing and his mother sitting sedately further back, looking for all the world as if she’d rather be anywhere else on earth than at the match, despite Malfoy’s protestations that his mother liked the Harpies.

Ginny had barely a moment to speculate on the odd pair before she was lined up, the whistle blown, and the match had begun. 

Falmouth had gotten a new Chaser since the last time they’d played, and Ginny had to reluctantly admit that the team’s composition and flow was much improved; they were almost a challenge for the Harpies. The match flew by, Ginny’s entire focus on the small red blur of the Quaffle, the whistling slight disturbance of air that indicated a Bludger hurtling in her direction, the flashes of dark grey where Falmouth players circled in her periphery. Slowly but steadily the Harpies pulled ahead, eking out goal after goal in a hard-fought battle. Sweat was pouring down Ginny’s back, her muscles tight and quivering as she swung back around after a hairpin feint that had resulted in a goal. She had barely a moment to breathe before she saw a sloppy pass between Falmouth Chasers who’d thought her too tired to take advantage of the error—an unfortunate underestimation on their part. She snatched the Quaffle and turned back towards the goals, only to see the Harpies own Seeker dive, then stop, pulling up sharply, then dive again. She hesitated, long enough to hear the angry tirade of an posh accent that was steadily growing more familiar to her.

“Not yet, you bloody imbecile! _Not yet_!” 

She turned her head in the direction of Malfoy, now more out of the box than it, gesticulating furiously at the Harpies Seeker, and she found herself grinning slightly at the realization that Malfoy was right—somehow, goal after goal, the Harpies had pulled far enough ahead that if they could just make one more goal before they caught the Snitch, they’d take first in the league rankings. 

The moment of hesitation cost her, though, because suddenly Falmouth’s new Chaser was directly in front of her, a taunting grin across the girl’s face. Ginny made to feint left, only to have the girl see through the trick and block her path forward. She looked around for her teammates, only to find them both being guarded just as closely. 

“Distracted by your new man, Weasley?” the Falmouth Chaser taunted her, inching her broom closer to Ginny’s, looking for an opening. “You’d think Potter would’ve been enough for you, but maybe you thought you could do even better, got a little greedy after so many years spent dirt poor. Potter’s got fame, some money, but nothing like Malfoy’s vault, eh?” 

Ginny saw red, hands gripping the Quaffle ever more tightly, but she’d had enough years of experience dealing with taunts from her classmates and on the pitch that she just let a broad, wicked smile spread across her face and her gaze flit over in Malfoy’s direction. 

“You’d be distracted too, if you knew exactly how massive his _vault_ is.” 

It only took a moment of hesitation from the dark-haired girl, clearly not expecting Ginny’s response and the innuendo she’d thrown out, just a flash as she looked curiously in the direction of the blonde wizard, for Ginny to whip her broom around and dart forward, past the girl, right towards the Keeper, and with a quick double-feint she rocketed the Quaffle through the center goal. Moments later, she heard a roar of excitement, and turned to see their Seeker closing in on the Snitch she’d never lost sight of, holding it up triumphantly. 

Ginny gave an ecstatic whoop, rushing towards her teammates and laughing joyously. After a victory lap, she sank to the ground and began walking towards the locker rooms, muscles aching and begging for a hot shower. She hadn’t gotten far when she was confronted by a sea of redheaded men, standing between her and her well-deserved shower. She bristled. 

“Hello, boys. You seem to have gotten lost.” 

Her brothers glanced nervously at each other before, as if by consensus, George stepped forward. “Gin, love, we just wanted to chat. You can see how we might be concerned about your mental health, since you’ve apparently developed an affection for ferrets.” 

Ginny frowned deeply. “Yes, and as I told Hermione, I’m perfectly fine. I appreciate your concern and we can talk later. What I don’t appreciate is being ambushed after my match. Get off my pitch.” 

Ron finally seemed unable to contain himself, surging forward with a wild gesture. “Perfectly fine?! Ginny, you… you… you kissed Malfoy! There’s clearly something wrong with you, and you’re coming with us until we can figure out what it is.” Her other brothers shifted at this outburst, Bill grimacing and Percy rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. 

“I will do no such thing, Ronald Bilius Weasley! If you so much as dare to—hey!” She was screeching now, as Ron had walked forward and tried to grab hold of her arm. “Unhand me this instant or you will find Bat Bogeys up your arse, you prat! Where—where is my—” She used her other hand to reach for her wand before looking up at her brothers with dawning realization. “YOU COWARDS! You waited until I was disarmed to confront me. Stupid bloody match regulations. I swear to Merlin—”

“Is there a problem, Ginny dear?” 

Her outburst was interrupted by a smooth, posh accent, and Ginny whirled with the thought that Draco Malfoy’s instincts for self-preservation had grown somehow more abysmally terrible with age, because he was now standing behind her, one hand resting gently on her shoulder. She would have appreciated the way he’d handled the situation, standing behind her, supportive but deferring to her assessment, but she was too distracted by the realization that _he_ had a wand. 

“Give me your wand,” she said authoritatively, reaching for his robe pocket quickly, but not faster than he snatched it and held it out of her reach. “Give me your wand _now_ , M-Draco.” 

“I think not. You see, as much as you might want to right now, and as entertaining as it would be for me, I think you would distinctly regret it when my wand malfunctioned in your hands and left one of your brothers splattered all over the Quidditch pitch, so—no—Ginny,” he said, normally suave tones now strained as he continued to try to avoid her lunges for his wand. Ron was still holding onto her other arm, though she suspected that was now as much to save his own skin by helping Malfoy keep her from getting his wand than any continued effort to drag her away. 

“Draco,” she said in a tone she hoped conveyed sweet pleading, but which from the look on Malfoy’s face had come out slightly threatening. 

“Well, Malfoy,” she heard Bill say from the cluster of her brothers, swallowing heavily, “it looks like you have things under control, so we’ll just be going now, I think. Ginny does need to shower and cool down. From the match, of course.” 

At this, Ron shot one last furious glance in her direction before reluctantly releasing her arm and darting back to the protection of the group. Astonished, Ginny gave up briefly in her quest for Malfoy’s wand.

“Seriously? You were going to bloody drag me away not five minutes ago!” 

This time it was Percy who spoke up. “Yes, well, we had our initial concerns, which you must admit were justified, and we should still speak privately later, but you do seem to be your usual self. And perfectly able to take care of yourself.” 

“What he’s trying to say is that we’re satisfied that if Malfoy had hexed or cursed you into dating him, he’d probably have made you a bit more compliant,” George piped up with a wry grin. She shot a glance over her shoulder at the blonde in question, who, while relaxed somewhat, did seem to be keeping a rather tight grip on his wand, muscles tensed in case she made another grab for it. 

“We’ll talk at dinner tomorrow, Ginny,” Ron shot in her direction with a slight glower, and Ginny shuddered to think of Sunday dinner at the Burrow. Maybe she could just put out a family-wide press release and avoid the repeated conversations she knew she’d have. She gave her youngest brother a frown and an irritated wave, and the group of them shuffled off in a rather more muted manner than they’d come. 

They were almost out of earshot when Bill, who had been bringing up the rear, stopped and turned back to Ginny. “It’s good to see you back to your old self, Gin. Even if you are just slightly terrifying.” He shot her a wink and Ginny was once again flooded with guilt. Had she really been that bad the past few months? That she’d managed to convince them she was happy and with Malfoy of her own free will just by showing her temper? 

“What was that supposed to mean, W-Ginny?” Malfoy said, casting a glance around for any ears just a little too perked on their conversation.

“Nothing. It was nothing.” With a physical shake of her head, Ginny cleared her mind and turned her focus back to Malfoy, now strolling with her in the direction of the locker rooms. “You’re not supposed to be able to get on the pitch.” 

“I’m Draco Malfoy,” was his smug reply, and Ginny rolled her eyes. 

“The size of your ego never ceases to amaze me. Oh, speaking of size,” she leaned up to speak more softly in his ear, enjoying the slight widening of his eyes, “sorry, but I have may started a rumor that you’re rather well-endowed.” 

His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline at that, and he laughed, an actual laugh, one that sounded much less annoying and pointed than it had at Hogwarts. “Apology enthusiastically accepted.”


	4. Defying the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny has Sunday dinner at the Burrow, and Draco and Ginny have a moment.

“You’ve lost your mind!”

“How dare you—”

“Mum! She’s lost her mind!”

“—grown woman, and you cannot interfere in—”

“Clearly Malfoy’s cursed her—”

“Actually, Ron, no, I checked—”

“—Hermione did all the checks—”

“—must’ve missed something—”

“Oh, so now you don’t trust your own girlfriend?”

“You don’t think I checked properly?!” 

“Then we’re back to you’re out of your mind!”

Dinner at the Burrow the next day could have gone better. 

It could have gone worse though, Ginny thought, looking around the room. Most of the Weasleys were sitting awkwardly in the living room, pretending to make small talk while eavesdropping on the argument currently going on in not-so-hushed tones between Ron and Ginny, with desperate attempts at mediation by Hermione and Molly. Of the group in the kitchen, Ron was sitting, red-faced, expression flickering between rage and despair as he grappled with the idea that his baby sister was actually dating a Malfoy. Her mother looked awkward, her motherly instincts to settle things between her children fighting against the slightly horrified expression she’d been wearing since Ginny had repeated that she and Malfoy enjoyed each other’s company enough times without any comprehension from her mother that Fleur had given a pointed cough, which finally seemed to get through to her mum. At least her face wasn’t the color of a ripe tomato any longer. Hermione had the same slightly scandalized look as Molly, but she kept casting glares over at her boyfriend—likely because he’d accused her of shoddy spellwork where his younger sister was concerned. Well, Ginny thought, reassessing the situation, it couldn’t have gone _much_ worse, but at least no one was dead. 

It helped that Harry wasn’t there. Harry still came to the Burrow for Sunday dinners sometimes, but less frequently than he had before. It was yet another thing she had to feel guilty about after The Talk, because while no matter that whatever happened between the two of them Harry would always be welcome at the Burrow, at least Ginny had a family separate from Harry, whereas for Harry, the Weasleys had become his surrogate family, and she would always be a part of that family. It had felt like their break was in some way taking his family away from him too, and Ginny had thought about owling him that he probably needed her family more than she did at the moment, and so was welcome to them, but was glad she hadn’t. It would have made the current situation inestimably more awkward. 

Later, when the whole group was all together again and blessedly talking about anything but her newest relationship, she quietly went across the room to her dad and pulled him aside. She’d wanted to apologize to him, separately, vivid memories of him physically brawling with the elder Malfoy in Flourish and Blotts weighing heavy in her mind. She hadn’t thought how he might feel about his only daughter dating the son of the man he’d actually come to blows with, and the guilt was roiling her in her gut and making her vaguely nauseous. 

They’d started walking outside—Ginny always did her best thinking outside, and her dad was always patient with his tempestuous youngest. “What’s bothering you, Ginbug?” 

She turned, her mouth set in a firm line. “I… I’m sorry, Dad. About… Draco. I didn’t mean for—I—I know how much you hate his dad, hate his family, and I should’ve—” 

She felt tears prick at her eyes unexpectedly, and she was struck with the sudden desire to tell him the truth, when he reached and pulled her to him in a fierce hug. She sighed, feeling about six years old again in the best way, safe and warm and loved and as if her dad could fix anything. 

“Ginny, love. You will always be my little girl, but… well, don’t ever tell them I said this, but I trust you to handle yourself a great deal more than I trust the gaggle of brothers you’ve got in the other room. If you like dating him, if you think he’s become an alright sort of man, if you’re happy, then I’m happy.” 

Ginny wiped away tears on his familiar robes worn soft, snuffling gently as she thought that she didn’t deserve her family, not a single bit. 

“But just so you know, I’m not too old for another fistfight if he hurts you.” 

She laughed at that, a real laugh, and he ruffled her hair, and she felt some weight that had been clamped around her heart lessen as she gave him another tight hug. He’d chuckled, and let her go, and they’d walked back inside. Somehow, after that, she could go back to trading barbs with her brothers and laughing at their jokes and letting their comments about Malfoy roll off of her back without feeling sick to her stomach.

* * *

The tense conversation after the Falmouth match had given rise to quite a few newspaper articles, most of them speculating on familial disapproval and whether the forbidden love aspect made the couple all the more romantic or all the more unsuited.

“Ugh, utter trash, all of it,” Ginny said with a disgusted sigh, looking over the top of the Prophet at Malfoy, sitting at a desk across the room from her spot on his couch, eyes focused on a pile of paperwork. “Just listen to this: ‘While much ink has been spilled on the importance of familial loyalty and compatibility, this author, dear readers, can’t help but root for the blind—” she paused to shoot a glare across the room at Malfoy’s snort before clearing her throat and continuing, “—passion and love that clearly has drawn these two together. One needs only to look at the two of them to see that theirs is a deep romance to defy the stars themselves.’” 

She tossed the Prophet in a rumpled heap onto the ground, upon which Monty immediately sat and began to purr. “They’ve got two pictures of us taken within the span of three days and suddenly we’re a romance to defy the stars. What do you say Malfoy—feeling particularly defiant?” 

Malfoy made a noncommittal grunt in her general direction, eyes still focused on the parchment in front of him, and Ginny sighed heavily. They’d both agreed that the best way to sell the whirlwind romance aspect of this was to spend as much time together as possible. While the intent was for the papers—and, by proxy, Harry—to assume that they were behind closed doors, enjoying frequent, star-defyingly passionate sex, in reality it mostly meant that Malfoy tried to focus on whatever it was he actually did while Ginny went increasingly stir crazy talking at him. They were only on Wednesday and Ginny was already nearly at her wit’s end. 

She made it through another half hour of silence except for the sound of Malfoy’s quill scratching insistently against his parchment before she spoke again. “So what do you suppose they think we talk about when we’re in here?” 

Malfoy dragged his gaze from his paperwork up to her with a droll smile. “I imagine they don’t think we do much talking at all,” he said with a lascivious raise of one eyebrow. 

Ginny just rolled her eyes. “But they have to imagine we talk about something. Even if it’s just between romps in the sheets.” 

The look Malfoy gave her had Ginny feeling certain that he’d been about to say something utterly inappropriate and that would have likely made her tip his chair over with her wand before he seemed to think better of it and consider her question. “Quidditch.” 

At this, Ginny nodded. “Yes, Quidditch. You like the Harpies, I play for the Harpies. That’s something good.” 

The silence stretched on awkwardly.

“We could talk about… whatever it is you do.” Ginny said, standing up and pacing over to the desk Malfoy was working on. “What is it that you do?” 

Malfoy gave a long-suffering sigh and, setting his quill down slowly and deliberately, turned to her. “I run the Malfoy Foundation.” 

Ginny felt heat beginning to rush to her face, the beginnings of a telltale blush on her face. “I—I don’t know what that means. What do you _do_?” 

She waited for his sharp tongue, for him to tease her about not knowing a real job, probably it had something to do with the massive amounts of money that his family had lying around, waiting to be bathed in or counted by goblins or hoarded by a dragon or something, but he just gave her a long, searching look that made her uncomfortable before he sighed again. 

“It’s a charity—you’re familiar with the concept, I hope,” and while the words were there, they were softer than usual somehow, as if he was just going through the motions as he took in her bright red face, “We have a set fund out of which we make donations to various charities throughout the Wizarding world, but we also make investments to make sure there’s plenty of funding for future years.” 

Ginny nodded slowly, brow furrowed as she tried to take in this new information. Draco Malfoy… ran a charity. Or, a charity that donated to other charities, she reminded herself. Never one to do the dirty work. And yet—it was much more charitable and honorable than she’d first imagined anything he did would be. 

“You… you run a charity?” 

“Never read my Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelor spread, I take it?” Malfoy said with a smirk. 

Ginny shot him a heated glare that only served to deepen his smirk, and then turned her attention to the papers he’d been examining moments before. 

“So… what’s this?” She gestured at the scrolls of parchment littering the desk in front of him. 

He gave her another searching look, as if he was trying to see something in her face. Whatever it was, he must have found it, because he flicked her gaze back to his parchment and started pointing out things to her. 

“We annually donate to this charity—it provides services and assistance to those who were injured in the war. They wrote me, though, because their rent is being raised this year, in addition to increasing costs as they try to expand their operations. They’re in danger of going under, and I’m trying to figure out what to do.” 

“Give them more money!” Ginny said suddenly, her eyes flashing. What else could he possibly think of doing? Her previously risen estimate of him sank slightly—he might give to charities, but obviously when people were really in trouble he cared more about his gold. 

Something in his grey eyes flashed before they went suddenly went entirely cold, his jaw stiffening. “Ah, Weasley, brilliant. Your financial acumen is truly wasted on Quidditch. I’d have thought all those years counting Sickles and Knuts to make sure your family could eat would’ve made you a little more aware, but… maybe my mistake should’ve been obvious.” 

She felt her temper rising, her fists clenching. “I’d rather be dirt poor than let all those people this charity is helping go without because I don’t want to spend a few more Galleons.” 

He gave her an icy stare. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“That’s what you just said! Do try to keep up, Malfoy!” 

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and then suddenly he’d shoved the papers in front of her face. “Look at them, Weasley. Look at them, and tell me. Should I double their donation for the next few years, instead of spending that on other worthy charities? Knowing that it’s going straight to their greedy landlord? I’m considering buying out their building, but I just can’t make the numbers work—even with them paying some reduced rent, it’s still an outrageous expenditure on one organization and they’d need more funds still. So, tell me, Weasley, what would _you_ do?” 

She was silent, looking down at them for a moment, before he shook them. “Well, Weasley?” His voice was an icy drawl, the face that had up until a few moments ago been a pleasant enough, if annoyed and long-suffering, mask of complacency now that familiar sneer. 

She looked desperately at the papers in front of her, the long columns of numbers and projections and budgets that made her head swim, and she closed her eyes. She felt like a proper bloody idiot, because of course he had to be right. It wasn’t that simple and she knew it. She’d always thought that someone like Malfoy must have enough money that any problem could just be solved with gold, but the war had proved that wrong enough, and shouldn’t she know better than anyone that even in the Wizarding world, things cost gold and money wasn’t an inexhaustible resource? 

Suddenly she paused, eyes flying open. 

“I have an idea.” 

She took hold of his arm, pushing the papers back down to the desk between them, and a smile broke across her face as she met his icy stare. 

“Of course you do,” he said, his deepening sneer letting her know what he thought of her idea.

“No, no, shut up Malfoy, I actually have an idea.” She waved a hand at him dismissively, leaning forward over the desk in her excitement. “What if they shared the space?” 

“There’s not room for another tenant, Weasley,” he said, voice still cold.

“No, no, not like that… Like… My mum used to be part of this… garden share, maybe, when I was younger. There was a big community garden space and it’s not like there were two whole gardens there, each tended separately, but one garden that multiple families used and helped tend and could take stuff from.”

“A garden? Your grand idea is a garden?”

“No, no, I’m not explaining it right, just—listen—” Ginny said, feeling certain she just needed to get the words out right, “I’m sure if they’re doing outreach and services, they’re not in the office all the time, right? So maybe there’s another organization that needs some of the same resources, with complementary hours, and they could both use the space. Maybe it’d need to be expanded a bit at certain times, but, well, that’s what magic is for, right? And then they could share the rent cost.”

Malfoy was staring at her, his face carefully blank. He was silent for a few long moments, and then his brow furrowed. Something in his eyes went, as if he was staring right through her, and then he turned and reached into a stack of papers in a drawer beside his desk, rifling through them. 

“That wasn’t actually the worst idea I’ve ever heard, Weasley,” he said, pulling out a few sheafs of parchment and poring over them with intent eyes. His tepid praise was belied by the slight upward twitch at the corner of his mouth that told her he was trying not to smile. 

She grinned, hoisting herself up to sit on one edge of his desk. “High praise, Malfoy.” He ignored her, but she looked at his face, serious as he sorted through his papers, and fiddled with the edge of her shirt as she continued, “Sorry about, y’know… what I said. That I thought you didn’t care. I should’ve—” 

Her words stuttered and failed. Malfoy had started rolling up his sleeves, barely paying any attention to her, but when he’d rolled up the cuff of his left shirtsleeve she’d seen the scars twisting across his arm in the remnant of his Dark Mark. At her stop, Malfoy looked up, and, seemingly realizing what he’d done, immediately reversed course and began rolling his sleeve down again. If there had been any hint of warmth or smile before, it was gone now—his face, with its pale skin and high cheekbones, was all icy cliffs, cold, harsh, unforgiving. 

“No, no, you don’t have to—” Ginny stopped at the cold glare he gave her. 

“What, did you forget you weren’t just putting on this charade with a schoolboy bully, a rich playboy bachelor, but an ex-Death Eater? Put you off the game, has it, Weasley?” 

She stopped, giving him a long, considering look. She _had_ forgotten, a little, that he’d been a Death Eater. Not because she’d forgotten about what he’d done, but because he’d been so… well, not nice, exactly, or even harmless or neutral but… he’d agreed to help her. He hadn’t laughed at her about Harry when she’d confessed the story of their break, sitting on his living room floor. He’d tried to help her with her brothers. She remembered the feel of his hand on her shoulder as he stood behind her, there for her if she wanted him. She wasn’t entirely sure what kind of man Draco Malfoy was now, but she felt certain that the man in front of her, who fed his cat bits of fancy tuna by hand when he thought she wasn’t looking and who was absolutely nutters about Quidditch and who was working himself silly over charity organizations, that Malfoy wasn’t the same sixteen year old Malfoy who’d been a Death Eater. 

“It doesn’t bother me,” she said calmly, and she wondered if the surprise on his face was more because of what she’d said or the fact that she’d said it softly, gently, without a hint of the anger and teasing that had come to be a hallmark of their interactions thus far. “It just startled me, is all, I wasn’t expecting it, and if you’d just given me a moment I could’ve gone on. Apologizing to you, no less.” 

His brow furrowed slightly, just the hint of a line appearing in a way that made her imagine what he’d look like in twenty years when it became permanent, and he gave her another one of those long, searching looks. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” Ginny said, brows raising. She didn’t know why she’d expected anything more out of a Malfoy. He was backing down, tacitly giving in to her. An okay from a Malfoy was basically a full-on apology monologue from anyone else.

“Okay,” he said, with a bit of finality, but she noticed that he didn’t make a move to roll his sleeves up again. In a fit of temper at his utter silliness—she’d _said_ it didn’t bother her—she reached over from her perch on the desk and began rolling the sleeve up herself, calloused hands carefully flipping and folding the starched linen of his shirt. She focused intently on the task in front of her, mouth suddenly dry as she tried to ignore the fact that Malfoy had… nice forearms. Pale, like the rest of him, but covered in fine white-blonde hair so pale you could barely make it out unless you were this close, lanky corded muscles from where he’d played Quidditch, or maybe he still played, and his hands—big, she noticed with a heavy swallow, ink-stained at the tips from where he’d been working, veins jumping with each brush of her hands across his bare skin. 

“Okay,” she murmured as she leaned back, her voice lower than she’d intended, a little breathier. She took a deep steadying breath, avoiding meeting his gaze where she could feel his eyes on her. 

She could’ve kissed Monty when he suddenly jumped onto the desk and settled himself on top of Malfoy’s papers. It broke whatever spell of tension had fallen across the two of them momentarily as Malfoy blinked and then was muttering at the cat, trying to shove him off the desk, and Ginny was scooping him up in her arms and laughing at the bits of ink on his fur, and everything went back to normal. 

A few hours later, when night was beginning to fall and Ginny was starting to pack up her things, Malfoy cleared his throat. 

“Weasley,” he said, and she turned her attention to him with one quirked eyebrow, wondering if he was going to bring up their moment before.

“Have you heard of Patronum?” 

“Erm, d’you mean a Patronus?” she said, and she knew by the amused smirk that curled his lips that was _not_ what he had meant.

“It’s a nightclub, opening this weekend. Talk of Wizarding London. Exactly the kind of place for star-defying lovers to be seen and make a splash.” 

“Oh,” Ginny said, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. Malfoy frowned.

“What’s wrong? This is exactly the kind of thing we want. It’s perfect. Lots of photographers, the two of us looking spectacularly made up, exclusive club opening, much more fun than Potter could dream of having, what’s not to be excited about?” 

Ginny shrugged, suddenly feeling quite small. “I—uh, I don’t go to clubs much. Not because I don’t like the drinking and the dancing and all that but, well…” She paused and took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. She had nothing to be ashamed of. If anyone were going to be ashamed, it should be him—or rather his father, but, since he wasn’t here, the son would have to do. “I don’t like enclosed, dark spaces. Being underground. After the—after my second year.” 

Malfoy paused, considering her. “It’s supposed to be a rooftop club. Indoor-outdoor. I can… ask around, beforehand, about how exactly it’ll be laid out.” 

Ginny felt her heart thump uncomfortably. “Please, yeah,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, the strange thump making her feel as if she’d just gone ten laps around the pitch on a training day. 

“I will.” Malfoy said, voice startlingly soft. And then, just because he was Malfoy, he continued, “And do wear something nice, Weasley. No hand-me-downs from Great-aunt Myrtle or whatever.” 

“Aunt Muriel,” Ginny grumbled under her breath, grabbing the last of her things and stepping into the Floo, ignoring Malfoy’s cackling laughter from behind her.


	5. Expecto Patronum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny and Draco get drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really expect to write this so soon, but I was excited about this scene, and upcoming chapters, and so I did. Coming up you can look forward to ever more banter between our beloved couple, more Pansy and Blaise, the appearance of Luna, and the addition of some background Hermione/Lucius (because I'm incorrigible).

The weekend came much too soon for Ginny’s liking. At least, she thought, staring forlornly at her closet, she didn’t have a match. They’d played on Thursday, a long and grueling slog through rainy conditions that, while they’d won, couldn’t have ended fast enough for Ginny’s taste. Even Malfoy hadn’t insisted she pretend to come by his place after that match, so she’d gotten to curl up and soak her cold and aching muscles in a hot bath and sleep in the next morning. Idly, she’d thought, as she was drifting off, she wished she’d had Monty around to curl up next to her and purr. Now, though, despite having a lie in and mostly puttering around her little flat relaxing all day, the anxiety of the coming evening was getting to her. 

A few things, at least, she hadn’t had to worry about. First, there was no way that she would see Harry. He hated clubs, hated crowds, hated all the attention. He’d much rather be at a quiet pub or over at Ron and Hermione’s, and rarely decided to use the star power he’d acquired as a war hero to get the exclusive invitations and perks people were dying to shower on him. No, she could just enjoy her evening and relish the idea that he’d see all the highlights over the papers and gossip rags the next morning. The layout, too, was unexpectedly off of her mind. Malfoy had owled her early this morning, letting her know that his contact (or rather, Blaise’s contact) had confirmed that the club was on a rooftop, towering above the city in what Muggles thought was an abandoned clocktower, and that it was nearly all open air. She’d wondered why he hadn’t taken the opportunity to poke fun at her about it, something like, ‘scared of the dark, Weasley?’ (she could practically hear it in his smirking drawl—which was quite different than his sneering drawl, or his cold drawl and, oh Merlin’s bloody beard, she’d been spending so much time with Draco bloody Malfoy that she could distinguish his tones of drawl) but then she’d thought about what kind of scars he might bear from the war years, other than the physical one they’d discussed earlier in the week, kinds that he wouldn’t appreciate her pushing and prodding at, and instead decided to just accept the gift that he hadn’t questioned her. 

All of that did, though, still leave her to try to figure out what to _wear_. She’d asked some of her teammates, all of whom were wildly excited and jealous that she would be at the opening, and told her that she absolutely had to wear something stunning, expensive, and scandalous. Qualities that Ginny tended to actively avoid in her clothing choices—she preferred simple, practical, comfortable clothes. She groaned, rifling through the racks of infrequently worn nice clothes in the back corner of her closet, before finally pulling out a dress with some trepidation. It was the nicest thing she owned—a pale green that she’d been told brought out her freckles in a pretty way, an off-the-shoulder neckline that could be considered scandalous (if you were Auntie Muriel, a sullen voice whispered in the back of her mind). Still, she considered it with hesitation. It was what she’d been wearing when Harry had proposed. He’d taken her to a nice lunch at a fancy restaurant and then they’d gone strolling through a park on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, blue skies above them and green grass beneath them, and Harry had been so nervous he’d almost dropped the ring. Swallowing heavily, she fought to suppress the memories and instead tried to think about it logically—no, deviously. Like a Slytherin. It would certainly get Harry’s attention, her, out in the dress that had been special to them at one time, with another man. Maybe it _was_ the right choice, she thought, giving it another long look before she finally changed and Flooed to Malfoy’s. 

Malfoy—no, Draco—she mentally corrected herself (they’d known that, a whole evening out, with other people around, they couldn’t afford any slip ups, so she’d been practicing his given name in her head)—was lounging in an armchair, the morning’s Prophet unfurled in front of him. He’d looked up when she entered and, much to her dismay, he immediately frowned. 

“Weasley… what are you wearing?”

“You’re supposed to be calling me Ginny,” she said petulantly, avoiding the question.

“… _Ginny_ , what are you wearing? You look like we’re going to tea with my mum.” 

Flustered and off-balance already, exhausted from the game the evening before and a long day of worrying about sticking out like a sore thumb at this stupid nightclub, Ginny was ashamed to admit that she stamped her foot like a child. “This is the nicest thing I own, _Draco_. And I was told I should wear something stunning, scandalous, and expensive, so unless you’d rather I show up in my knickers this is the best I’ve got. Besides, it’s the dress I was wearing when Harry proposed, so I thought maybe that would—” 

But Mal—Draco had dropped the paper to bury his face in his hands, shaking his head. 

“No, no, no. You Gryffindors are hopeless. Not a subtle bone in your bodies.” 

Her face must have visibly fallen, because when he looked up she saw something in his eyes soften just slightly, something in the way the corners crinkled, and he gave her one of those long-suffering sighs that she was growing very familiar with. 

“It’s a good memory for you, because you were happy about the engagement—are still happy about the engagement. If he felt... stifled or whatever, then seeing you in that is just going to remind him of that feeling. You’re supposed to be representing freedom, having fun, the parts of you he’s missing out on. And that dress,” he said, the softness leaving his voice, “is anything but fun. Honestly, Weasley, who on earth told you that was _scandalous_?” 

Ginny frowned, refusing to meet his eyes. “It’s off the shoulder.” 

He made a choked noise that she knew was him suppressing laughter, and her temper broke. 

“I already told you, it’s the nicest thing I have. If you wanted me dressed up like some high class whore you should’ve bought me something that was up to your bloody standards yourself.” She dumped her purse on the ground and threw herself onto the sofa with a force that caused Monty, who was sitting on one armrest, to jump away with an offended yowl. 

There was a pause and, from across the room, she heard Malfoy say, “Alright, alright, I’ll fix it.” Refusing to look in his direction, she heard him walk across the room to the Floo and murmur an address, then stick his head through. 

“Pans?” 

A distantly familiar high-pitched voice answered through the fireplace. “What? I’m not even late yet!” 

“Oh, so you admit you were going to be late?” Draco drawled (his smirk drawl, Ginny’s mind helpfully supplied, together with an image of the bemused expression his face likely had). She fought the urge to snicker.

“What do you want?” the voice snapped, and at this Ginny actually did giggle a bit. She looked up to see Draco meeting her eyes from across the room, amusement flashing in them, and her anger at him cooled a bit. 

“Ginny sent her robes to be cleaned by a house elf service but they’ve unfortunately gotten it all mixed up, and she’ll need something to wear tonight.” Merlin, he lied as easily as he breathed, she thought, watching as he smoothly manufactured a plausible story for her faux pas. He really was a surprisingly good choice of partner for this little scheme. “And I know you have all the best things.” 

“… Flattery will get you everywhere,” the voice said after a moment’s hesitation, and after a few minutes of rustling, Ginny watched as Pansy Parkinson stepped through the Floo. She fought to keep the slightly jealous awe off of her face—Pansy Parkinson looked stunning, scandalous, and expensive. She was wearing a daringly short beaded dress with long sleeves that gave the impression she was wearing robes, and large panels of her dress between the beading were sheer lace, showing swaths of creamy pale unblemished skin. She’d grown into her looks a bit since Hogwarts, though mostly, Ginny realized, it was that the daring clothes and carefully applied makeup gave the impression of someone who didn’t care whether she was attractive—which, of course, made her all the more attractive, even with her pinched face and still pug-like nose. Ginny picked at the hem of her dress, suddenly acutely aware of the reason Draco’s face had fallen in dismay when he’d seen her outfit. She looked positively dowdy in comparison. Off the shoulder indeed. 

Parkinson gave her a blatant once-over, her dark red lips turning down with a small frown. “Well, yes, this is quite a mix up indeed.” 

“I was—erm, going to tea on Sunday,” Ginny mumbled and Parkinson’s eyebrows rose, her eyes twinkling in amusement though she nodded as if in perfect understanding. 

“Well, good thing you called, then,” she said airily, and with a wave of her wand the pile of fabric she’d been carrying shook itself out into an assortment of clearly expensive and fashionable robes that then proceeded to float in the air in a circle around them. 

“Why does Ginny get to wear robes when you told me I have to wear Muggle clothing?” Draco said from his armchair, sounding exactly like the petulant child he’d been at twelve. Ginny realized with a start that Draco was actually wearing Muggle clothing—she’d been too caught up in the deficiencies in her own attire to realize he actually looked quite nice, in dark denim and an equally dark button-up. Pansy looked his direction and frowned, before with a wave of her wand one more button came undone. 

“You looked stuffy,” she said at his indignant squawk, and Ginny fought to suppress her laughter. “You’re wearing Muggle clothes because as a pureblood and a Malfoy, it’s unexpected and daring. Weasley gets to wear robes because if a Muggle lover like her came in Muggle clothes, it would be expected, especially with you in them as well. It’s more shocking for her to be in Wizarding couture.” 

Ginny frowned, thinking through Parkinson’s words and trying to fight the instinctual bristle at the term Muggle lover. After all, in tone and in light of Parkinson’s comments about Draco’s attire, it hadn’t seemed pejorative, just… descriptive. It all did seem a bit overthought, but there was a logic there she couldn’t deny. And she couldn’t exactly argue—she had no idea what kind of thought one put into dressing for a social event like this.

“Pansy spent last year interning for one of the Parisian fashion houses and now she knows best,” Draco said in a tone that conveyed exactly how much he thought of that expertise. 

“I do know best, thank you for acknowledging it,” Pansy said shortly, and then turned her attentions to Ginny. “Now up and out of that dress, before a house elf wanders in and tries to serve you crumpets.” 

“In here?” Draco said from the armchair, his brows skyrocketing as he looked at Ginny, trying to mask the panic on his face. 

Ginny, for her part, grinned wickedly. She wasn’t ashamed of her body; she was a Quidditch player, she’d been half-naked or worse around her teammates more times than she could count. And the idea of making Draco uncomfortable and getting back at him for his response to her outfit seemed like the perfect revenge. 

“Nothing you haven’t seen already, Draco,” she said with a smirk dangerously approaching Malfoy territory as she stood up, meeting his eyes, and reached back to unzip the dress, letting it fall to a pool at her feet. 

She noticed that Draco had grabbed the Prophet off the floor again and was back to reading it—or rather, back to pretending to be reading it, since it looked to be upside down. 

Parkinson, momentarily forgotten, laughed, giving her a sly grin. “I like this one, Draco.” 

Remembering that Parkinson was there made Ginny slightly uncomfortable; she remembered at Hogwarts the two had seemed inseparable, even if Draco had mostly come off like an inattentive arse most of the time. In any event, the two had obviously dated, and here Ginny was, flaunting their supposed sexual relationship in front of her. Then Ginny thought back to the casual way that Draco had firecalled her, the nickname, the striking woman in front of her, and without thinking she snapped, “Draco? Not Drakie anymore?” 

Even Draco’s eyes snapped up from his abysmal attempt at reading at that, though she noticed with some satisfaction that his pale cheeks went pink when he remembered she was in her knickers. Parkinson, for her part, seemed startled for a moment and then started laughing, her dark eyes sparkling. “There’s that firecracker I remember from Hogwarts. Draco, don’t you hear, she’s jealous? It’s cute.” Ginny started to glower at being called ‘cute’, when Parkinson started walking through the sea of robes, plucking at first one, then the other, and used the excuse to lean close to her and faux-whisper, loud enough for Draco to hear, “You can have him, love. More issues than Witch Weekly, that one. But if you get bored of him…” She trailed off with a lascivious drawl, eyes drifting down Ginny’s form, and bit at her lower lip, causing Ginny to give a startled cough. 

“Pansy, stop hitting on my girlfriend and dress her, please,” Draco said, though Ginny noted that his voice was a little throatier than it had been when she’d first arrived, and he kept trying to shift his position in the chair so that Pansy’s floating wardrobe was between him and Ginny’s exposed body. Pansy, it seemed, though, kept shifting the robes just slightly to thwart his attempts. Ginny decided that she thought she might be able to quite like this Pansy Parkinson, who seemed like the vicious gossip she’d been at Hogwarts with all the worst jagged edges smoothed over, though she had no idea if Pansy liked her or hated her. 

“This one,” Pansy finally said, winging a set of robes over towards her with a few modifications made with a swish of her wand. Ginny struggled into the robes, trying to mask the feeling that she was playing dress up with her mother’s clothes. The robes were a dark green silk that, Ginny had to admit, she knew suited her coloring, with a golden trim that highlighted her tanned skin and freckles. That was the end of what Ginny about the robes. They had a deep scoop neck that somehow managed to give her the illusion of cleavage, with a scandalously low back, were skin tight enough through the upper body and hips that every ounce of curve on her athletic frame was highlighted, and were cut nearly as short as Pansy’s in the front before flowing to normal robe length in the back, showing off her Quidditch-toned legs—all of which were attributes she had never before had in clothing. She shifted uncomfortably, about to tell Pansy that she’d be a laughingstock if she showed up in this kind of an outfit, when she heard a rustling of paper and, looking up, realized that Draco was now clutching the Prophet tightly in one hand, crumpling it beyond readability in one section, normally light grey eyes swirling dark as his jaw worked on a heavy swallow.

“I think that’s a yes,” Pansy murmured, and Ginny shared a wide grin with the dark-haired witch. If she could reduce Draco Malfoy to this, she could certainly get Harry’s attention. 

“Heels?” Pansy said, her eyes turning to Ginny’s sandals with a frown of distaste.

“Can’t,” Draco said from his armchair, where he was trying to straighten out the part of the Prophet he’d destroyed. “Broke her ankle one too many times in the War.” When both women fixed him with perplexed stares, he shrugged. “Honestly, Pansy, it’s like you didn’t even read her scouting report.” 

Ginny blinked. Draco had read her scouting report? She supposed he’d said he was a fan of the Harpies. Or rather, that his mum was. 

“Am I getting scouting reports on your girlfriends now?” Pansy said archly, and with a grumble Draco gave up on reading the paper altogether, crumpled the whole thing into a ball and launched it at Pansy, who shrieked and tried to throw up a hand to block it. Ginny, grinning, took advantage of Chaser’s reflexes and grabbed it out of the air, only to switch hands and fling it back at their attacker. Surprised at her maneuver, it hit him squarely in the chest, and both women were reduced to helpless laughter, sharing a look at the ruffled indignation on Malfoy’s face. 

“Come on, we’re going to be late,” Draco said, standing up abruptly with a glower and holding out an arm to Ginny. She took a deep breath, and, slipping her arm into his, let him Apparate the both of them into the night.

* * *

Suddenly Ginny was outside, breathing in the cool evening air, standing before a large modern-looking building. She only had a moment to catch her breath before her hearing returned, seeming to fade back in with the rest of her senses, and she realized that people were calling out, press asking for comments. She blinked, blinded by the bright flashbulb of a camera, and she realized—people were saying _her_ name.

“Ginny! Ginny Weasley! A comment for the Prophet on your relationship with Draco Malfoy?”

“Mr. Malfoy! Tell Witch Weekly your favorite thing about dating Ginny Weasley!”

“Ginny! Is it true your parents disowned you for dating Draco Malfoy?” 

Frowning, Ginny started to turn towards that comment, but she heard Malfoy chuckle at her side and tug her towards the door. “Leave it be, Weasley,” he murmured into her ear, “they feed on attention.” 

“Ginny,” she corrected him weakly. She was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the attention, and his soft breath against her ear had been disturbingly distracting. 

“Ginny,” he assented, in that same low tone against her ear, and Ginny blinked dazedly, noticing Pansy’s sharp stare in their direction. Shaking herself, she watched as they were led through a VIP line, entered a glittering lift that took them to the top floor, and, then halted, dazed, when she stepped out. London lay glittering before her in the night, and, slightly sunken from the area where the lift had deposited them, was a sprawling space looking out over it, kept warm by heating charms as the bass throbbed from a DJ somewhere. The second thing she noticed was that, as soon as she forced her legs to propel her forward, heads were turning her direction, and, most surprisingly, not first at the man beside her, or even at her face, and it wasn’t pity or disapprobation in their eyes. No, people were looking her direction appreciatively, their eyes tracing up her legs and the curve of her body before reaching her face, pleasant shock and hungry heat in their eyes. Ginny felt a throb of confidence, chin lifting slightly higher, and grinned. She could do this. She looked at Parkinson, who had taken a few steps forward towards the edge of the platform with a sultry saunter, surveying the area as if she were a lioness looking for prey, and Ginny grinned, stepping forward to do the same, when her eyes caught on a flash of red hair on a tall frame, and she froze, because—yes, next to that red hair was a mop of bushy curls, and then—familiar messy black hair, glasses, head thrown back laughing at something Ron or Hermione had said. 

She stopped breathing. 

Malfoy noticed, hand tightening around her arm, as she finally managed, on an exhale, “He’s here. Bloody fuck, why is he here?” 

His eyes immediately found what she’d been looking at in the crowd and he heard him swear next to her. “I didn’t know, Ginny, I swear. We don’t have to do this, we can leave—we’ve already been seen out front, we—”

But green eyes suddenly followed the roar of the crowds and looked up to lock with hers. 

“Too late,” she whispered. 

Draco’s grip on her arm tightened reassuringly, but it was Pansy, dark eyes glittering as she looked back and forth between the frozen Ginny and the little group now pushing their way towards the platform, led by a very angry redhead, who reached back to grab hold of Ginny’s hand and tug her forward. 

“Come on now, Weasley, I didn’t get you dressed up for nothing,” she said, tone artificially light, but when she began to walk down the steps with a sultry roll to her hips, Ginny grasped onto the memory of when she’d first stepped out, of the admiring glances at her, of the thought that she was a Harpy, famous in her own right, confident, a powerful witch, beautiful, she’d apparently snagged Witch Weekly’s most eligible bachelor, she could just _walk down the bloody stairs_ , and set off with a strut, trying to emulate the loose sway of Pansy’s hips. She could’ve sworn she heard Draco swear behind her, but when she turned around he was following behind them with a customary smirk. 

“Alcohol,” she mouthed in his direction, “I _need_ a drink.” One corner of his smirk deepened, and he gave her a wink as he peeled off in the direction of the bar. 

Turning back, she saw that Pansy had paused, waiting for her attention, and she met the brunette’s gaze. “Sorry about that,” she said with a half-shrug, not even sure herself if she meant her pause to talk to Draco or the frozen doe routine she’d pulled at first seeing Harry. 

Pansy just grinned. “Welcome to the club of people with a difficult past with Potter.” 

Ginny’s lips tightened, not sure she wanted to put herself in _quite_ the same category as the Slytherins she’d somehow managed to surround herself with, but, well, Pansy’s confident strut had helped, and in any event, it was too late to argue, because Ron was almost upon them. 

“Ginny! Wh-what are you wearing?!” Ron spluttered, taking in her dress robes with a horrified glance. _He_ would’ve thought her off-the-shoulder dress was scandalous, Ginny thought with an internal sigh. 

Ginny ignored him, thoughts momentarily stolen as Harry caught up, green eyes widening as they took her in. “Ginny.” His voice was barely a croak, and as she met his gaze Ginny felt something warming inside of her, the memory of Harry looking at her like that the first time they’d kissed, the first time she’d stood in front of him in her knickers, slowly revealing herself to him after the war, memories flooding back to her, and she felt the urge to step towards him, take him in her arms, kiss him, this whole plan be damned, when Pansy’s voice interrupted. 

“Good job, Potter, that is her name,” she said breezily, and then turned to the other people who had caught up with the group, nodding at each in greeting, “Granger, Weasley 2… Chang.” 

A splash of ice cold through her veins doused any warmth that had been gathering towards Harry. _Chang_? He’d come with her? She blinked, her vision clearing, and she realized that Harry was looking slightly guilty, rubbing his neck awkwardly as Cho Chang stepped up beside him. She was gorgeous, all long athletic limbs and sparkling dark eyes, as beautiful as she’d always been. At least, Ginny thought grudgingly, she’d let Draco talk her out of wearing the dress she’d originally worn—the deep v neckline of Cho’s robes would’ve left Ginny looking painfully matronly in comparison. Cho gave her a slightly apologetic awkward smile and Ginny fought the urge to hex her eyes crossed.

“Weasley 2?” Ron was fuming, frowning in Pansy’s direction.

“Yes, well, Ginny is Weasley 1, obviously,” Pansy said, looking at him as if he were a simpleton. Ginny fought the urge to grimace; Pansy certainly remembered Ron’s buttons to push. Luckily or unluckily, Ron’s glowering retort was interrupted by a dark, masculine laugh, and Ginny turned to see that Draco had returned, blessedly carrying two drinks, with Blaise Zabini and his date, a stunning blonde who had to have been at least part-Veela, in tow. 

“As requested,” Draco said, passing off one of the drinks to Ginny, “your favorite.” 

Ginny eyed the bubbly concoction in her hand with some skepticism—she wasn’t sure she’d ever mentioned her favorite drink to Draco, and whatever this was certainly wasn’t it, but she gave him a grateful smile and took a gulp. She coughed slightly, realizing what he’d brought her—champagne and _Firewhiskey_ , the arse. After a choking swallow, the taste seemed to settle in and it was… nice, she realized with a start, sweet with a heated kick. He gave her a knowing wink and she gave in to the urge to grin back. They were in public, after all.

“Your favorite drink is a Heated Hippogriff,” Harry said abruptly, ignoring the daggers both Cho and Hermione had turned to glare at him. 

“New favorite,” Draco said, slinging one arm over her shoulders possessively. “She tried something new and liked it better.” 

Harry looked as if he’d been punched in the gut, and Ron looked as if he was going to either be sick or punch Draco in the face. Cho looked awkward and displeased, and Ginny felt a pang of guilt—she’d liked Cho, before this had all happened with Harry, and she hadn’t wanted to ruin her night, but… well, that was what Cho got for trying to move in on Harry when they were just on a break. 

Still, Ginny leaned up to reach Draco’s ear, close enough to whisper, “I think it might be best for everyone’s health and safety if you stop baiting my brother.” 

“Ruin all my fun, why don’t you,” he murmured back, and she could feel his lips curling into a smile against her skin as a muscle in Harry’s jaw twitched. 

“Come on, then,” he followed, loud enough for the rest of them to hear this time, “may I have this dance?” 

She let herself be pulled away from the group, across the room, before being spun around to face Malfoy, who now had one arm wrapped around her lower back, hand splayed on her hip. 

“Have we just left your friends to be murdered by my brother?” Ginny asked, taking another long sip of her drink. 

“Blaise could charm a troll, and Pansy can handle herself,” Draco said, moving the two of them to the music. 

For a few long minutes, Ginny just let herself be moved along with the beat, closing her eyes and breathing in the smell of Draco’s expensive cologne, the night air, the steady thrum of the bass line, the growing lightness in her head as she polished off her first drink. 

“I can’t believe he brought Cho,” she said suddenly, and when she opened her eyes she saw Draco was frowning down at her. “I mean, first they went to a Quidditch game, and now this? He hates nightclubs, that was why I was sure I wouldn’t see him here, he hates crowds and attention. He’d never have come to something like this with me.” She paused, looking down at her empty glass. “I need another drink.” 

To her delight, the glass refilled itself, bubbling up from the bottom. “Brilliant!” she squealed as she took another long gulp. 

“Those are all on my tab,” Draco muttered, but Ginny was already polishing off her second glass and getting it refilled again. As if in response, she watched Draco finish his own glass and refill it, all with a scowl. 

“Don’t pout, Draco, we’re dancing,” Ginny said, suddenly feeling giddy, heady. Perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to test out the automatic refill magic quite so thoroughly, she thought, as someone brushed against her and she stumbled forward, pressing herself against the warm length of Draco’s body. Or, she thought, as his grip on her hip tightened to keep her upright, his long fingers brushing against her curves through the thin silk, it had been a wonderful idea, because she could, with the pleasant haze of alcohol dismissing her more responsible thoughts, enjoy the strength of his fingers on her and the softness of the Muggle shirt he was wearing, the pale triangle of skin revealed where Pansy had unbuttoned his shirt more. Because if she wasn’t so drunk, her brain would surely be recoiling at the fact that she was appreciating Draco bloody Malfoy. 

She looked up to see Draco swallowing the rest of his glass before refilling it as well, the muscles in his jaw working as he looked down at her. She noticed, with a jolt of satisfaction, that he, too, was starting to look a little hazy around the eyes, his carefully styled hair beginning to fall loose from the movement and the heat around them. Draco Malfoy was getting _drunk_. 

“Why did you get me this?” She held up her drink, shaking it for effect before she took another gulp. “Not that I’m complaining, but.”

“Because you asked for it.” 

“No, not a drink, I mean _this_ drink in particular, champagne—” and stopped, because the corners of his lips were twitching upwards. “Oh, you knew what I meant,” she said, laughing instead of feeling peeved by his deliberate misinterpretation. The dance floor was getting more crowded as the night went on, she got jostled again, so she stepped even closer, reaching up to rest one hand on the nape of his neck and watching as he took another gulp of his drink.

“You didn’t answer my question though.” 

He sighed, looking at her as they swayed for a minute, swirling grey eyes dark and considering. “It’s what you tasted like when I kissed you,” he admitted, and Ginny felt a delicious shiver run down her spine. “Sweet, sparkly, with a not to be underestimated kick.”

“Are you drunk, Draco Malfoy?” 

“Not as drunk as you, Ginny Weasley.” She noticed that his pale cheeks were tinged pink, his smirk loose and relaxed, and she just threw her head back and laughed, tightening the hand she had at the nape of his neck. 

“Let’s give them a show, then,” she said, polishing off yet another glass and depositing in the hand of an unsuspecting passing wizard. 

“I do believe you might be a lush, Ginny.” His voice was low and raspy and the way it lingered over the syllables of her name, dragging across them sensually, did something not altogether unpleasant to her body, sending tingles up and down her spine and the length of her limbs. “But if you insist… a show is what they’ll get.” 

With that, he finished off his drink and vanished it, and then suddenly the hand that was on her hip was inching lower, his fingers just brushing the curve of her arse, and his other hand was tangled in her long red hair, strong fingers massaging her scalp with sinful caresses. And his hips—he was moving them both to the music now, which, as the night had gone on, had gone from something light and fun to something dark, low, and throbbing, the rhythm clearly sexual, and Ginny moved along helplessly, her breath caught in her throat. She swayed against him, clutching his shoulders as she gave herself over to it—it was all a show, all a trick of the music and the lights and their outfits, so carefully planned to show Harry exactly what he was missing, and so she couldn’t feel guilty about enjoying it, could she? Not when it was all for Harry, she told herself.

So she let go, her hips writhing against his in a way that made his breath stutter against her cheek, and she laughed at that. She felt… powerful, wanted and beautiful and lightheaded with it. Not the little girl who’d put her elbow in the butter dish, or the sad woman waiting in the wings for Harry to figure himself out and come back to her, but she was Ginny Weasley and she would bring Harry Potter to his knees with wanting her. 

She turned around, wrapping her hands up and around Draco’s neck to thread through his hair as his hands gripped her hips again, pulling her back against him with a force that hadn’t been there before, and she was laughing, all champagne and Firewhiskey and Draco’s cologne and warmth and light, and then she noticed him. Harry. Across the room, dancing with Cho. Nothing as blatantly sexual as her writhing against Malfoy, but… he was touching her hip, he was laughing, and he was looking… at Cho. Right in her eyes. 

He hadn’t even noticed Ginny. 

Draco must have felt the stutter in her hips, because he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Something wrong?” 

“No, nothing,” she said, turning back around to face him, leaning into the shivers arcing down her spine at his warm breath on her. “I just need another drink.”

* * *

It was late when Draco finally insisted that they go home, and Ginny Weasley was smashed. Utterly and completely. Pansy, Blaise and his date had joined them, seeming if anything amused by the redhead’s drunken antics, and all too willing to play along with her demands. It was Draco who had insisted that even if none of the rest of them did, _he_ needed his beauty sleep. Ginny almost protested—she’d been having fun, even if she couldn’t quite remember what was fun about it. She just knew that she’d been laughing, and the people around her had been laughing, and those drinks with the champagne and Firewhiskey had been delightful, and she had been distracted from thinking about Harry.

When they appeared with a crack in the middle of Draco’s living room, she’d stumbled, and when the arm that had been holding onto her tightened, pulled her close, Ginny closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of Draco’s expensive cologne, mint and salt water and pine and cliffs by the ocean. Her head was spinning, rather more than she’d care to admit, so she clung to the blonde man in front of her, allowing herself to once again enjoy the coiled strength in his lean torso, the heat of his body pressed up against her, the softness of his Muggle clothing. 

“Ginny?” he murmured, sounding more than a little concerned, and she realized that she’d buried her face in his chest and was nuzzling at the bit of exposed skin where his shirt was unbuttoned. His skin was as soft as she’d imagined it would be, though like his arm, was covered in a dusting of fine blonde hair. She looked up to see him staring at her with wide eyes filled with shock and something else, something her slightly blurring vision couldn’t quite place. She did, though, notice his lips, slightly open, and she remembered when she’d kissed him. It had been nice to be kissed, she thought; she’d never told him that, shouldn’t ever tell him that. It had been nice to be held tonight, to be danced with, to have his hands skimming her body. Another thing she shouldn’t say. But it had been so nice. So nice. 

“So nice,” she breathed softly, watching his brow furrow in confusion as she leaned up and captured his lips with hers. For a moment he was just frozen, but she whined softly against him as she clutched at his shirt, and then he was kissing her back and she was reeling. If their first kiss at the Harpies event had been a tease, a flirtation, this kiss was a hurricane, a force of nature that left heat searing through her body as he thoroughly and skillfully demolished her with every press of his lips, his tongue, his teeth against her mouth. Desperately her hands clutched at his shirt, scrabbling with the buttons as she started to undo them, sliding her hands against his bare chest, so hot even though it was so pale it could be carved of ice. A harsh sound escaped the back of his throat, but then he was pushing her back just slightly, holding her an inch away from him as those wide grey eyes met hers again, pupils dilated so that she couldn’t quite tell where iris ended and pupil began, just a swirling storm with no center. 

“No, no, Ginny, we can’t—this shouldn’t—you’re dru—”

“Come on, Dra-co,” she said, trying to enunciate every syllable of his name, having realized she was almost certainly slurring her words and not wanting him to notice. From the frown on his face, he had definitely noticed. She decided to distract him by sliding her hands under his shirt and exploring for herself the defined, solid abs she’d been dismayed to discover what felt like just days ago, and leaning up to press open-mouthed kisses against the hollow of his throat, relishing in feeling him shudder beneath her. “I know we shouldn’t, but it’s okay, just for now, Harry has Cho, and it’s all just pretend—” 

Suddenly something twisted in his face and she was shoved, not gently, back against the wall, staggering as she tried to regain her balance without his supporting presence. 

“Sod off, Weasley,” Draco was snarling at her now, and she blinked. She couldn’t categorize this drawl, because it was barely a drawl, she had never ever seen him so angry, and all she could think for a long moment, as she blinked blearily up at his image scattering and swaying in her mind, was that lying behind his visceral rage must be the fact that he was disgusted by having touched her, disgusted by her. 

She felt a burning pressure mounting behind her nose, her eyes, a prickle, and even as she tried to stifle it, she let out a sob and crumpled to the ground, burying her surely splotchy red face in her hands. In moments he was kneeling in front of her, trying to pry her hands away from her face, but she just shook her head and struggled against him. “Y-you don’t want me, Harry doesn’t want me, no one wants me, n-no one.” She let out another hiccoughing sob against her hands, and felt his grip relax. 

“No, not when you can’t stand up, Weasley,” she heard him mutter, and then there was a scuffing sound, a grunt, and she felt his arms wrap around her, one behind her back and one sliding under her legs. “C’mon, Weasley, up you go,” he said, and she dropped her hands to wrap them around his neck as she felt the ground recede beneath her, burying her face into his chest as another long sob wracked through her. She felt faintly nauseous and she just hoped that she didn’t vomit on him as she felt him carrying her through his flat, down corridors she’d never explored. 

Sniffling, she leaned back slightly. “I’ve gotten snot on your shirt,” she said sadly, looking at the splotchy shiny wet spot on the front of his surely wildly expensive shirt. 

“Damn, it’ll have to be burned now.” 

“That’s your amused drawl,” Ginny murmured into his chest. “’S different than your mean drawl. Or your smirky drawl.” 

She heard a puff of laughter from above her, and felt Draco pause, shifting her weight as he leaned down to open a door. 

“Weasley, next time you’re feeling insecure about being wanted, we can skip this part if you just take off your clothes in front of Pansy again. She’d be happy to disabuse you of the notion you’re not wanted.” 

She felt herself being lowered onto what was surely the softest bed she’d ever felt, probably some sort of transfigured cloud, but she still clung to his neck like a child, inhaling another deep gulp of his now familiar cologne, indelibly Draco. 

“Ginny, you’re ‘sposed to call me Ginny.” 

“Ginny,” she felt him murmur against her forehead, before he reached up to try to disentangle her arms from his neck, and she surrendered to sleep.


	6. Snitches and Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny deals with the aftermath of Patronum, and gets some news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse a brief interlude of ~feels.

The morning sun streaming in filled her with a pleasant warmth, and, truly, she could stay here, lying in the sun smothered in whatever soft blankets were surrounding her forever, Ginny thought, rolling over to snuggle deeper into the bed—until the movement jogged a memory that slammed into her, that she was _dying_ , her head throbbing so hard she was nauseous, her limbs aching, and she groaned as pieces and snippets of the night before flooded back to her. She tried to press up to a sitting position and paused, keeping her eyes shut tightly against the sharpening pulse in her head. With the movement she felt silk shifting against her skin and cursed softly—Pansy’s nice dress robes, probably ruined from a night spent sleeping in them. She chanced opening her eyes slightly, peeking to see the damage that had been done, when she saw not the opulent emerald green she’d been expecting but black, white trim, familiar and tailored—one of those fancy silk pajama shirts she’d seen Malfoy wearing. She froze at the realization that he’d undressed her, if only to dress her again, but, based on what she could remember of his reactions to her the night before and the fact that she could still feel, now that she thought about it, the slightly painful tension of her bra straps pressing into her skin, it seemed he’d actually been… gentlemanly about it. 

Not that she had been ladylike. 

She winced as she remembered the fool she’d made of herself the night before—pressing herself against him, _kissing him_ , slurring her words, _Harry has Cho_ , and then sobbing on the floor that no one had wanted her. Merlin, it was a wonder Draco hadn’t dumped her out on his front stoop, instead of… she frowned, trying to concentrate, remembering the feel of his arms wrapping around her, carrying her through his flat… Her memory seemed to fade out when she hit the soft embrace of the bed, but clearly he’d carried her here, put her into pajamas, and, she realized as she noticed the glint of a bottle in the sunlight next to her, left her a Pepperup Potion. 

After she’d swallowed the Pepperup greedily and basked in the softness of the bed for a few more long moments, she put on her bravest Gryffindor face and left the room to find Draco. The flat was quiet in the morning, Ginny realized with a flash of warmth and comfort, no yelling or car alarms or siblings demanding to visit, just all butter soft sunshine and birds chirping outside, as Ginny padded up and down the halls, but her searching was in vain. The only door she couldn’t open, the one she assumed might’ve been his bedroom, was locked. She’d knocked softly and called out his name, but silence was her only answer. Something sharp twisted in her chest at that, as she could’ve sworn she heard a soft rustling as of blankets, but the door stayed firmly shut and no voice, not even a grumpy one telling her to go away, was forthcoming, so she gave the door one last long look before she made her way to the Floo and back to her flat.

* * *

Ginny Weasley was an idiot. 

A complete and utter moron. She’d had, well, maybe not a good thing going, but she’d had something going. A plan. She and Malfoy had had a plan, and it had been working. Maybe not as well as she’d initially envisioned, with Harry immediately falling all over himself, but it had only been a couple of weeks and Harry had _definitely_ been jealous when he’d seen her with Draco at Patronum. And while the plan was still on, ostensibly, Ginny had undeniably ruined something between her and Draco. They hadn’t been friends, exactly, but… well, they’d spent quite a lot of time together and they’d gotten quite comfortable in their little routine. She missed the comfort of that routine, she told herself, just the routine, and not, in fact, their sharp-tongued banter, or the way his smirk would twitch and deepen when he really wanted to smile at her, or the peace that came from having someone she could talk to without the cloying pity or worry about Harry that seemed to hang over her other interactions. 

But she’d ruined it. When she’d first gone back over to his flat on Monday after her practice, as was their usual routine, he’d been working silently at his desk, scribbling at something. He’d barely even glanced at her when she flopped down on the couch, and had grunted noncommittally in her direction when she’d tried to talk about the latest headlines in the papers, her last match, anything. She’d even pretended she was considering charming Monty red and gold, and all he did was look at her with cold eyes and say, “I’d advise against you doing that.” Not a hint of a smirk or a sigh. She knew that maybe she should’ve said something about the weekend, what she’d done, but… well, she’d been drunk, and he wasn’t exactly opening the conversation, and if he was going to give her the cold shoulder she’d give him one right back. 

That had lasted for barely a week before she’d broken. She’d never been good at ignoring problems, preferring instead to confront them head-on in the most ill-advised of ways. 

“M-er, Draco, listen,” she’d said, leaving her spot on the couch to stand at his desk, directly across from where he was sitting, so that he couldn’t avoid looking at her. He’d raised his eyes to hers slowly, still cold, closed, shut off. She’d thought he was unemotional before, but now that she’d seen him this way she realized that before he had practically been an open book, once you knew how to read him, how to see the way that just the slightest shift of his face could express a multitude of emotions. It was easy to tell now that his face was locked in one emotion at all times—cold indifference. She’d never thought she’d miss those long-suffering sighs he used to give her.

Gryffindor as ever, she charged ahead. “I… I should’ve said something earlier, but I wanted to… thank you. For what you did last weekend. I was… I was out of line, and you were… a gentleman about it. Thanks for, erm, not taking advantage.” 

He surveyed her for a moment, then glanced back down at his paperwork. “You were staggering about like you’d been hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx,” he said, resuming his scribbling, “hardly appealing.” His lip curled in a hint of a sneer, and Ginny ignored the stabbing pang in her chest at that.

“Still, though. And thanks for… putting me in bed, and changing my clothes.”

“Didn’t want you to ruin Pansy’s dress.”

“And leaving me Pepperup.” 

“Couldn’t have you waking up and vomiting all over the place.” 

“Fine, then,” she said, slamming her hands on the desk and turning around. She’d tried. She’d thanked him and he’d thrown it all back in her face. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, trying to make nice with Draco bloody Malfoy. Clearly there was a time limit on how long he could suppress his natural brattish tendencies and she’d reached it. He barely raised an eyebrow in response, just grabbing another sheet of parchment from his desk and humming as he scribbled something in the margin. 

And so things had been like that for almost another week, seeming nearly untenable. They were saved from the awkwardness of trying to appear blissfully in lust in public by her grueling match schedule, at least, so that they only had to spend time alone together in tension-filled silence.

All told, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Ginny when she stepped out of Draco’s Floo on a Thursday, trying to wring the last bits of dampness from her post-match shower out of her hair, and was greeted by Malfoy’s sullen words.

“You might as well go right back, Weasley. No use pretending any longer, we should just give the game up.” 

Her throat tightened, and her first thought was that something had happened that made it all pointless, Harry had gotten engaged to Cho, and then she realized that was ridiculous, and she tried to sort through more reasonable alternatives, until she got to what had to be it—Malfoy didn’t think they could pull this off any longer. Or he’d gotten tired of sitting in awkward silence for weeks on end and couldn’t stand to spend a second longer in her company, plan be damned. She felt a sudden lurch of panic and a misplaced emotion she wasn’t sure she could name.

“What?” she blurted out, knowing she sounded dumb, waiting for his mocking words, but all she heard was a clink of glass.

Shaken out of her daze, she realized that while Draco was at his habitual place at the desk, all traces of paperwork were gone. Instead, sitting in front of him was a crystal tumbler and a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey. Her eyebrows shot up at that, and before she even realized she’d consciously decided to do it, she was halfway across the room, standing in front of him. Whatever was going on, none of the scenarios she’d imagined would have driven Draco to drink. 

“Draco, what is going on?” she said, more insistent now as he continued to stare blankly down at the slosh of Firewhiskey as he poured, ignoring her questions. She realized she’d put her hands on her hips, and hated that she was exactly like her mother, but she needed to understand what was happening and so she needed him to _answer her_. 

“My parents are going divorced,” he said coldly, taking another swig and refusing to look at her. 

She exhaled sharply, feeling as if all of the energy and nervous tension of the past weeks had suddenly drained from her. She sagged against the desk, brow furrowed as she watched Draco take another drink. 

“Oh. I’m… I’m sorry, Draco.” Her voice sounded small and woefully inadequate when she imagined what he must be thinking, must be feeling behind that facade of his, but he just shrugged, not a crack appearing in his icy cold armor of indifference. “But I don’t understand… what you said at first… What… what does that have to do with… us? With this?” She gestured between them, more confused than ever about his words when she’d first arrived.

Finally, he looked up at her, and she almost flinched at the cool disregard in his eyes. “Merlin, you really are that dumb. Isn’t it obvious? The papers are going to have a field day with it, they’ve been going on and on about family disapproval and a star-crossed romance since that stunt your brothers pulled, and now they’re going to blame y—blame us for my parents.” 

Ginny took a moment to breathe, in and out, processing his words. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Finally that mask cracked, one brow raising in clear disbelief and confusion. “Okay?” 

“Yes, okay. Okay, so that’s what the papers will say, but who cares? I mean, not two weeks ago they were saying my family was disowning me and we were going to flee the country with our love child, but there wasn’t any truth to it, so it settled down.” She paused, a leaden feeling settling in her gut. “Unless… unless there is some truth to it.” She swung around the desk, ignoring his startled glare to put a hand on his shoulder. “Draco, is there… is the reason your parents are getting a divorce us—this?” 

He stared at her for a moment, and she felt a sinking certainty. 

“Oh fuck, oh Merlin, no, I’m so sorry, then of course we can stop, I’ll scream it in the streets right now, if you want I’ll go and personally tell them it was all a scheme, all my idea, it wasn’t real—”

“No, no, Weasley—stop. Ginny!” Draco cut her off with a wave of his hand. “That’s not why, though your concern for my parents’ marriage is touching.” 

“Oh.” For the second time in the brief span since she’d arrived at Draco’s flat, Ginny felt deflated. “Then why should we call it off?” 

Draco’s mouth tightened somewhat, but the walls didn’t come all the way back up, something about the wrinkle between his brows remaining expressive. She wondered if he even realized. “Because you’ll get blamed for it. And our story is that this is just supposed to be… lust. A quick fling until we get tired of each other and burn out spectacularly. And flings like that don’t stick around through stuff like… this. It’ll mess with our cover story.” 

Ginny’s grip on his shoulder slackened, her face twisted in disbelief, her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

“And anyone who’s known me longer than 5 minutes knows that I would never abandon someone over something like that, fling or not! And, honestly, Malfoy, real or not!”

She watched Draco swallow, hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he seemed to consider her words. “I… it’s not part of the plan.” 

“Okay, so we roll with it.” Instinctively, she slid her hand up from his shoulder to the side of his face, pressing and forcing him to look at her. “Okay?” Something had twisted in her gut, in her chest, at the thought of giving up on him, on leaving him, when he was going through something so difficult, even if the giving up and leaving would all just be fake. He wasn’t her… they weren’t even friends, but Ginny wasn’t heartless. She couldn’t get the image out of her mind’s eye, of leaving him to sit alone in his flat working on paperwork evening after evening, wondering about the last piece of his childhood left crumbling around him. No matter he’d been a horrible terrible bully in school and that his parents were on the whole awful people, he’d clearly loved them and they’d loved him, and this felt like kicking a dog when it was down. 

His face may have still been hardened into vague indifference but his eyes… were swirling with indecision, confusion, some emotion she couldn’t name. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” She couldn’t resist the tiny smile that broke across her face, and she noticed when the corner of his mouth twitched too, just a flicker before he suppressed it. She let her hand linger too long on his cheek before she pulled it away and shoved it into her pocket awkwardly. 

For a few long moments they just sat in awkward silence, Draco sipping at his Firewhiskey and Ginny, eyes narrowed, contemplating him, the blank look on his face, the half-empty bottle, the long evenings spent in silence with her while he worked, the juddering ache in her chest when she tried to imagine how she would feel if her parents were splitting up. 

“Do you trust me?” 

Draco looked up at her, his first thoughts—shocked disbelief—writ plainly across his face before he shuttered it into something of a sneer. “Of course not,” he drawled. 

Ginny sighed, casting her gaze heavenward for a few moments. “Well, then, would you trust me just for five minutes?” 

He gave her a long appraising look, then looked down at his glass again, and then sighed heavily. The corner of Ginny’s mouth twitched upwards. “Fine.” 

She beckoned him with one hand, and when he got up and stepped closer, she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to her, maybe a touch closer than was necessary. “Hold on,” she murmured, and she had just enough time to start to laugh at the startled expression on his face before she closed her eyes and concentrated, the room spinning around them, until they disapparated with a sharp crack. 

“Wher—oh, wow, bloody Merlin,” she heard from beside her as she released Malfoy, and couldn’t stop the grin that crossed her face as she inhaled the familiar scents of grass, dirt, fresh sea air, broom polish, and opened her eyes to see the Harpies’ practice pitch rolling out in front of her. 

“Come on, Draco, we’re going to play some Quidditch.” She stroke confidently across to the broom shed and grabbed her own and one of the practice brooms, together with, after a moment’s consideration, a tiny golden Snitch. 

“Wha—that’s not fair, you’re a professional bloody Quidditch player!” She noticed, however, that for all his protests, he had eagerly accepted the broom she’d offered and was running an appreciative hand along it. 

“Sure, a professional Chaser. And you were a Seeker at Hogwarts, just like I was at one point.” Still holding the Snitch tight in her hands, she mounted her broom and pushed off to hover just a few feet above him, shooting him a wicked grin. “I mean, if you really insist, I guess I could go easy on you.” 

“No way in hell, Weasley.” He was almost really smiling now, kicking off the ground and leaning his head back as he inhaled deeply, the crisp wind coming off the coast whipping through his hair. As they rose into the air together, Ginny watched something within him, something in the set of his jaw and shoulders, settle at the open air, the sea and the grass of the deserted coastline, and as she watched him, Ginny noticed something soft and warm blossom in her chest. 

“First to catch the Snitch wins? Give it 30 seconds?” She was tossing the Snitch from hand to hand now, watching its wings flutter indignantly as she handled it like a Quaffle, and Draco turned back from where he’d been looking out over the ocean to give her a nod, eyes fixed on the Snitch as she pulled her arm back and flung it away from them. 

“Was that really necessary?” he drawled, giving her a disapproving stare, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch and gave him a grin. 

“No, but it was fun.” She was counting in her head, but nearly lost track as she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, as his attention turned to searching for the Snitch, just a hint of an actual smile on Draco’s face. 

“Ready yet, Weasley? I do hope you can actually count.” 

She flushed at his retort, though it was definitely delivered in the smirking drawl, and so she just said, “Er, right. Go!” as she leaned forward and rocketed across the pitch, making big, wide circles as she kept her eye out for the Snitch. She heard Draco curse from below her before the familiar rush of air indicating he was rapidly coming up behind her, and she laughed aloud. It felt good to be on the pitch like this, not with the Harpies, not for a training drill, not for anything but having fun, letting off steam, letting the world fade away into nothingness. 

Draco was better than she’d remembered him being, though maybe it was the fact that she was long out of practice as a Seeker and he didn’t have a Harry-sized chip on his shoulder any longer. She’d initially planned to let him win, and then to not let him win, since she figured he’d see through her, but at some point it became an actual competition, their brooms darting in and out and around each other, brushing close as they both dove and angled for the sparkling glint of gold, until she was breathless. At long last, she saw Draco plummet from across the pitch and swore, leaning as far over her broom as she could as she tried to race in his direction, in a nearly headlong dive, swearing, first, as she saw one of his hands reach out and grab the Snitch with a triumphant yell as he pulled to a halt hovering a few feet above the ground, and then, as she realized that she couldn’t pull up fast enough to avoid a collision. With a strangled yell, she plowed into Draco, sending the two of them the last few feet to the ground in a roll, and she heard a muffled grunt as his back hit the ground, arms coming up to grab her as she instinctively tucked her limbs inward, until they finally landed on their sides in the mud, panting. 

“Sore loser, much, Ginny?” 

She opened her eyes to see a smug-looking Draco Malfoy, face smeared with dirt, grinning wildly. 

“You called me Ginny,” she said dumbly, for lack of anything better to say, because somehow, laying tangled up in his long limbs, his arms still wrapped securely around her back, almost nose to nose in their closeness, confronted with the first real actual joy she’d seen on his face in the entire time she’d known him, Draco Malfoy had left Ginny breathless. 

“It is your name, yes. And what I’m supposed to call you, as you’ve told me repeatedly.” He sounded amused, and Ginny shook herself, trying to focus on anything but how close he was and how warm she felt cocooned in his limbs and how good he smelled now that the crisp scent of his cologne was mixing with sweat and grass and dirt, somehow more masculine and realer. 

“I—yeah, you just… I thought you wouldn’t any more.” 

She shifted slightly and heard him grunt in pain. “Oh, sorry!” She lifted off of his arm, rolling over so that she was laying on her back next to him, looking up at the wide open sky swiftly fading from twilight into night, stars sprinkling into existence. She heard Malfoy roll over next to her, so that they were barely an arms-length apart, next to each other, each looking up at the dazzlingly cobalt and purple sky.

They stayed silent for a few long moments, until it was, for once, Draco who broke the quiet. 

“My mum is going to leave England for a little while, once the divorce is finalized.” 

Ginny stayed silent, careful not to upset whatever delicate balance they had achieved that had let Draco feel comfortable enough to open up, to talk about this. She just reached out, one arm extending until her fingertips were just brushing his, just enough for him to know she was there. His hand flexed slightly, fingers brushing against the back of her hand, before she heard him swallow and continue. 

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this, of all people, but…” She heard him swallow, his voice grow more hoarse, and she let her fingers tap against his again. “She’s been spending lots of time at some of the Malfoy properties in the south of France anyway, says that England just reminds her of all the bad memories, aggravates her nerves. Apparently now there’s a man there, some younger guy who’s an artist.” He laughed hollowly, and Ginny heard something bubbling up in his throat behind it, so she turned her hand so that she could slide her fingers against his palm and let them rest there. 

“It’s a horrible cliche, really, it is, except…” His voice trailed off, and Ginny wondered if he would pick it back up again, but then she felt him wrap her hand in his and squeeze. “Except that she’s obviously so bloody _happy_. After everything she went through, everything my father and I put her through, of course she just wants to be somewhere warm and sunny with a man who makes her laugh and tells her she’s his muse. But even if it makes me selfish, I still… I still wish she wouldn’t, wish that even though I know it’s not true it didn’t feel like she was leaving me too.” 

Ginny squeezed his hand back, turning her head so that she could finally see him, his profile silhouetted in the fading light. When he didn’t realize she was looking at him, his face was so open, so expressive. And, right now, she thought with a pang, so completely sad and angry and in pain. She thought through a half dozen things she could say, empty platitudes and nice words about something she didn’t, couldn’t, really understand, and then remembered the way she’d felt when people had done the same thing to her after the breakup with Harry, and just let him lay there holding her hand. 

Finally he turned his head towards her, meeting her eye in the moonlight. “Why did you take me to play Quidditch?” 

Ginny gave it a moment, thinking through exactly how she wanted to answer. “Whenever I’m upset, or I have something to think about, I don’t want anyone to talk to me about it or to try to force me to talk to them about it. I need to process it first. And I feel like my head is clearer when I’m flying, when it’s just me and the broom and the air, and I can let myself just be focused on something simple—you know, Quaffle through hoop, catch the Snitch, fly.” She took in a deep breath, weighing the measured look on his face and his hand around hers against their past. “After my first year, when all anyone wanted to do was talk about what happened at the school, and check on me, and make sure I was okay, and fuss and hover, I started to sneak out to the broom shed, pick the lock, and steal my brothers’ brooms I wasn’t supposed to use, just so I could get away from them all for a while. I did the same thing after Fred died. I guess… I guess I just thought maybe you might like it too, to be distracted for a while and feel the sea breeze and not have to… to talk about it until you’re ready.” 

Draco stayed silent for a minute, and Ginny felt herself beginning to flush. “I mean, I guess. Plus, you know, the Harpies practice pitch. It’s cool, you know. And I didn’t want to be stuck in your flat while you drank yourself into being a mean drunk or a sad drunk, or clean up after—”

“Thanks, Ginny,” Draco said quietly, his hand tightening around hers again, and she swallowed suddenly feeling very warm despite the rapidly cooling night air. “It was… it was just right.” 

Ginny exhaled deeply, feeling something lighten inside of her, and the lightening brought with it, almost unbidden, a smile, small but warm and genuine. Something in Draco’s eyes softened at that, and she felt his fingers curl against hers as he turned his head back to look at the sky. They laid there like that until it was too cold to stay out anymore, just holding hands and watching the stars come out across the sky, and when the shivers finally got the best of her, she actually felt a pang of regret and something she couldn’t quite place or acknowledge as they let go of each other’s hands. And it wasn’t until much later that night, when she was lying in bed replaying their conversation, that Ginny realized she had thought of The Talk not as The Talk, or as a break, but as a breakup.


	7. Babe with the Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny and Draco have a night in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your guys' continued feedback on this! This chapter is a little silly and self-indulgent, but... well... it's fanfic, so. Hope you enjoy, and next chapter we'll be back to our regularly scheduled public shenanigans.

“What’s wrong, Ginny?” 

“Hmph?” Ginny grunted, looking up at the brunette frowning at her from across her tiny dining table. Hermione’s arms were crossed and her brow was furrowed into a tight line of consternation. 

“You’ve been distracted and quiet all lunch. Something’s clearly bothering you, and you know you can tell me anything. Is it about…” Hermione’s voice dropped to a quieter, softer tone as she awkwardly reached across the table to pat at Ginny’s hand in what she guessed was supposed to be a comforting gesture, “…Malfoy?” 

Ginny blinked dumbly. She hadn’t realized she’d been that lost in thought, but she’d been thinking about this weekend—other than her match, she and Draco hadn’t made any plans for any showy outings or special events, and she didn’t think it’d be good for him to sit alone in his flat doing work all weekend, whether or not she was with him, and she just wanted to come up with some idea to distract him from the news of his parents. Apparently he’d said that the final divorce papers would be filed with the Ministry this afternoon, right before the weekend, so that’s when it would all come out and she just knew the press would be circling like the sharks they were—

“Earth to Ginny!”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, Hermione,” Ginny said, flushing. 

“So is it something about Malfoy?” Hermione was looking at her quite intently now. “Because you know you can tell me anything, right Gin?” 

Ginny worried at her lower lip with her teeth. If she didn’t tell Hermione the truth, she’d think there was something horrible going on between her and Draco and tell her brothers, who’d probably try to kill first and ask questions later, and besides, maybe Hermione would actually have some kind of good advice or idea. Slowly, she nodded, watching Hermione lean forward, her lunch ignored. 

“What is it, Ginny? What’s going on?” 

Ginny sighed, looking up to meet Hermione’s anxious gaze. “Draco’s parents are getting divorced.” 

“Oh.” Hermione’s mouth had snapped shut, her brow furrowed just slightly, though she looked more confused than concerned now.

“And I’m worried about him. The papers are getting filed this afternoon, and everyone will know, and it bothers him, even if he doesn’t really want to talk about it, and he’s just going to stew over it all weekend and I want to do something to distract him but I don’t know what.” Ginny, her concerns now out in the open, frowned and went back to nibbling at her sandwich, while it was Hermione’s turn to sit in stunned silence, frowning down at the food on her plate. 

“You’re… worried about him.” 

Ginny nodded, taking a big bite of her food, feeling much better now that she was talking about the issue. “He doesn’t ever talk about stuff, which, I know, is really the pot calling the kettle black, but once it all goes public the reporters are going to be terrible and I don’t want him to think about it too much, but going out will just draw attention and questions and said reporters, so I’m trying to think of something fun, distracting, but private.” 

Ginny watched curiously as Hermione ran a hand through her tangled mess of curls, looking very much as if she wanted to say something but was working up to it. 

“What is it?” Ginny asked around another bite of food.

“It’s—Ginny, I thought you said you were dating Malfoy just because he was… erm, well… you know…” Ginny blinked owlishly, and Hermione sighed heavily. “Because he was good in bed!” she hissed, eyes darting around as if someone would hear them in Ginny’s flat.

“Oh! Well, erm, yes,” Ginny said, flushing furiously as she thought of their cover story and the first time she’d had this conversation with Hermione.

“Well, it just sounds like you really care about him, is all. More than someone you just… you know… with.”

“Have sex?” Ginny said, giving Hermione a pointed look.

The older girl’s answering blush was all the confirmation Ginny needed, who just rolled her eyes. 

“His parents are splitting up, ‘Mione. I’m not _heartless_. And apparently his mum is going to leave the country for a while after it’s all filed and done, she’s got some boyfriend down in the south of France, and I think he’s taking it a bit personally.”

“No, see, that there!” Hermione said, sitting up straight in her chair. “You’re… it’s like… it’s not just about the abstract of him being sad because of his parents, which, by the way, I’m honestly surprised their marriage vows would permit, I’d read that the old pureblood marriage vows tended to be quite literal about the ’til death do we part’ portion—” 

“You’re getting off topic, Hermione,” Ginny said through another bite of turkey sandwich, frowning at her friend.

“Right, sorry. My point is, it’s not just that like, a bad thing is happening to a person and so you want to help them, but it’s all very specific to Malfoy. You seem really intuitive about what’s really bothering him, even if he doesn’t say it, and very concerned about it.” 

Ginny frowned down at her now nearly-empty plate. Hermione did have a point, one that she thought Hermione would feel even more strongly about if Ginny were to reveal her trip to the Harpies’ pitch with Draco and the way they’d held hands as he told her about the divorce, but that felt… private, which was silly in a relationship that was supposed to be exclusively for the public, so all she did was shrug awkwardly. 

“I just… I want to think of something that’ll distract him so he won’t have to worry about it so much tonight, knowing it’ll have all just come out and people will be hearing about it and talking about it.” 

“Something that’s not…” Hermione raised one eyebrow and Ginny took a moment to take her meaning, flushing. No, while it would have worked very well had they _actually_ been having a torrid romance, distraction Draco with sex was most certainly off the table. 

“Yes, something that’s not just that.” 

Hermione frowned, picking up a fork to turn the bread off of her sandwich and poke at its contents as she thought something over. “You know, I’ve been telling you I’ve been working to try to get some of my parents’ electronics to work in areas that have some magical buildup, and I think I might have something. It’s just the VCR, it’s a little out of date but I’m still working on the DVDs, it’s something about the digital encoding that the magic seems to scramble more easily, I was thinking about using some sort of runic warding—”

“Hermione,” Ginny interrupted, and the brunette started with an apologetic smile.

“Right, well, DVD player issues aside, I could bring over the VCR I got working and some of my old movies. I don’t know how much Malfoy would enjoy watching a Muggle movie, but it’d definitely be something different. I could set it up for you this afternoon.” 

Ginny broke into a broad smile. “That’s a great idea, Hermione! We can set it up here, and that way we can just entirely avoid all the paparazzi who are going to be swarming Draco’s flat trying to get comments.” 

Somewhere in the back of her mind Ginny remembered that _she_ had been the one to say in the first place that they should spend all of their time at Draco’s flat, but that felt long ago, before he’d listened to her patiently, before he’d become Draco instead of Malfoy, before they’d held hands on the Quidditch pitch. She realized with a start that Hermione had been prattling on, and blinked her way back to attention to catch the tail end of Hermione’s lecture on the machine.

“… and of course you’ll have to tell me all about how it goes, if there are any issues, any adjustments to the charms that need to be made, you should really just consider this another iteration in a series of trials…”

* * *

That evening Ginny found herself back in Draco’s flat, watching him roll and unroll his sleeves while he pretended to be working on paperwork, though he hadn’t turned a page or written anything he hadn’t immediately scribbled out the entire time she’d been there. 

“Draco, c’mere,” Ginny said, coming around to stand next to his desk and reaching out a hand. Only in the slight wide wildness of his eyes could she see how restless and anxious he clearly was, but he just shot a skeptical look at her offered hand.

“Come on, don’t you trust me?” When all he did was give her another pointed look, she rolled her eyes and groaned. “Seriously?” 

“Stop asking the question then, if you don’t like the answer, Weasley.” 

“I would have thought that the results last time got me a little bit of credit,” she said with a slight huff, giving a pointed look at her outstretched hand. Finally, with a heavy, over-exaggerated sigh, Draco stood up and took her hand. 

He didn’t even seem surprised when Ginny tugged him closer again and the two of them felt the familiar squeeze of apparition. When they arrived in her flat, Ginny let his hand drop from hers and stood for a moment, flushing and suddenly intimidated and awkward as she saw her own flat through Draco’s eyes. 

“Is this…?” Beside her, Draco was quiet, though his eyes were scanning the room around them.

“My flat, yeah,” Ginny rushed to finish, the flush growing deeper as she looked at the crowded apartment, with its mismatched furniture and knitted blankets strewn over every surface, shelves jammed full of pictures of her and her friends together with knick knacks she’d accumulated over the years, gifts from Bill in Egypt and a miniature dragon Charlie had gotten her and a little souvenir from Percy’s first trip abroad for work. 

“It’s… cozy,” Draco said, voice sounding slightly strained, but when she shot a glance up at him he didn’t seem to be making fun of her, sad-sounding compliment notwithstanding. 

As he started to walk around the room to take a closer look, Ginny started babbling. “I thought it’d be better to be here than your flat, since the press will think to come ‘round to yours, and no one will suspect us here, and no one can get in anyway, Hermione helped me ward this place herself and— oh! Speaking of Hermione, that was the other half of the night, she lent me something, I don’t know if you’ll enjoy it but I figured I’d try it out—”

She stopped speaking as Draco, who was now examining a shelf of pictures closely, leaned over and flipped a handful of pictures she recalled from memory were of her and Harry, in better days, flat onto their faces. She caught just a glimpse of indignant faces in the frames before the pictures were face-down on her shelf. 

When Draco caught her confused look, he just shrugged. “He was looking at me funny.” 

Ginny’s mouth quirked as she tried to hold back a laugh, and something in Draco’s shoulders that had been there since she’d arrived at his flat relaxed. 

“So what’d you borrow from Granger?” 

“Erm… here, c’mere, it might be easier to show you,” Ginny said, striding across the flat and opening the door to her bedroom. When Draco followed her and saw the bed in the center of room through the open door he stopped short, and Ginny was at least gratified to see a flash of pink rising high on his pale cheeks, even if it was nowhere near the color of her own face, which could best be described as flaming tomato. “I know, it’s weird, I’m sorry, but Hermione said that the living room was too close to the Floo and it interfered with her charms, oh, Merlin, it’s that, there—” 

She stopped and pointed to a set of unfamiliar machinery that Hermione had helped her set up that evening, a large box with a screen on front, with a smaller box next to it that played the tapes that Hermione had showed her. She had felt reasonably confident she could work it all, but now that Draco was actually _here_ , standing in her bedroom and staring down in confusion at a Muggle television and video player, she felt unaccountably stupid. Why would she have ever thought that Draco Malfoy would want to watch a Muggle movie with her? Bloody Merlin, she must have caught a cold that turned into some kind of brain fever playing Quidditch with him that night, because that was the only reason she’d had such a bloody idiotic idea. 

“Nevermind, it was a dumb idea, let’s just go back to your flat,” she muttered, rubbing her face with the palms of her hands as if that could hide her embarrassment. She was startled by the feel of strong hands reaching up to grab at her wrists, and had a sudden flash of half-memory, another time she had been covering her face and Draco’s big hands had reached for her. 

“Wait— _Ginny_ —hold on,” he said, trying to pry her hands from her face gently. “I don’t actually know what you’ve just showed me. What’s going on?” 

She took a deep, steadying breath and let her hands drop from her face, though she adamantly refused to meet Draco’s eye, instead staring fixedly at a point over his left shoulder. “It’s… Hermione’s been working on making Muggle technology work, even in magical spaces. Places like Hogwarts are basically impossible, but usually even homes that wizards regularly do magic in are too much, but she’s gotten this stuff to work. It’s what you need to watch a Muggle movie. It’s called a television and a VCR player, she said. I just… I thought—maybe it’d be—distracting,” she finished lamely. 

Draco gave her a long look, one that she could just see out of her peripheral vision, since she was still steadfastly refusing to look at him in her embarrassment, and then ran a hand through his hair, lips growing thin, and she tensed, waiting for him to demand they go back to his flat. 

“So what are these… movies… we watch?” he said slowly, the unfamiliar word tumbling thick in his accent. Ginny’s eyes shot to him, but now he was the one who wouldn’t meet her eyes. After a few long moments where Ginny satisfied herself that he wasn’t about to yell “got you! stupid Weasley, why would I ever watch a movie with you?”, she turned to a basket of tapes that Hermione had left behind, a grin splitting her face. If she’d been paying more attention, she’d have noticed the slight quirk of a smile on Draco’s face behind her, but it was just a flash before he’d schooled his expression back to hesitant curiosity. 

“There’s a bunch of options, Hermione left some of the ones she and her parents had had, they’re each an hour or two,” she said, pulling out the boxes Hermione had given her. 

“This looks like old Xenophilius Lovegood got struck by lightning,” Draco said, holding up a box that had a picture of blonde man who, yes, did look as if he’d been struck by lightning, on the front, together with a large maze. 

“It really does. Hermione said that one was one of her favorites when she was a kid, want to try it?” 

“Why not? If _Granger_ liked it,” Draco drawled, avoiding the half-hearted shove Ginny threw his way without looking, and Ginny set about putting the other movies back in the basket. She was halfway to putting the movie in the VCR and hitting play when she heard Draco clear his throat behind her.

“Hm?” she hummed in response, frowning down at the controls to make sure everything was set up properly.

“Did you—ah, I mean—what precisely were the seating arrangements going to be?” 

Ginny could hear the slight fluster in his voice, and she turned to realize was Draco had clearly realized moments ago. Seeing as the devices were set up in her bedroom, the only seating option was her bed. Ginny turned bright red, a rush of heat that she told herself firmly was _entirely_ embarrassment, notwithstanding any slight tingle in her lower stomach, spreading itself through her body at the idea of sitting next to Draco on her bed. Suddenly, she was saved from examining too closely the way her mind seemed to be focusing in on the idea of sitting next to Draco in the softness of the bed, their hands brushing again, maybe their thighs, how easy it would be to lay back and have his arms wrap around her the way they’d done when they were cushioning her from their fall on their brooms, by a sudden flash of inspiration. With a grin, she pulled out her wand and, a few moments of muttered charms later, was standing in front of a very confused Draco Malfoy and one complete blanket fort. 

“What is that?” Draco said, looking for all the world as if she’d conjured a colony of Flobberworms.

“It’s a blanket fort! Didn’t you ever make them as a kid?” Ginny’s voice was bright and cheerful, suddenly excited at the idea of reliving her childhood.

“No,” Draco answered definitively, bending down to peek at the structure of pillows and blankets. 

“Oh. Well, I did, all the time. Or, really, I’d have Ron help me build them, really big and tall and amazing, with all kinds of fun stuff inside, and then when it was done I’d tell him it was a girls only fort, and he had to leave, and usually I’d manage to use my magic to actually keep him out.” 

As she’d suspected, the story at her brother’s expense made Draco relax slightly, and he crouched to slide his way into the little cavern at the foot of her bed. “And you had him do this how many times?” 

Ginny grinned, hitting play on the machine and sliding in next to him. “After the third time he’d mostly wised up to my tricks, but I got him a few more times after that when his guard was down.”

“So how does this work, anyway? What do we do?” Draco asked from next to her, shuffling around and trying to make himself comfortable. 

“Hermione said it’s just moving pictures, but a whole story of them. Basically a recording of a play that we watch back.” Ginny grabbed an extra pillow and tucked it behind her, wiggling around until she was comfortably ensconced in her position, watching as the movie began. After a while, Draco seemed to get comfortable enough to stop wriggling around, and turned his attention to the screen as well. 

“I’m with this girl,” he murmured, nose wrinkling as he watched the screen, “That baby is annoying.” 

“Oh hush, it’s just a baby,” Ginny shushed him, elbowing him in the side half-heartedly. 

“Ah, and I suppose you adore babies? Something in the Weasley genes? Won’t be content until you can field your own Quidditch team of baby Potters?” There was something more than just their now-familiar teasing in Draco’s voice, an undercurrent of sharpness that led Ginny to turn and look at him, frowning.

“It’s none of your business, but for your information, no, I don’t want a Quidditch team of baby Potters. Or any babies. But just because I don’t want a gaggle of them doesn’t mean that I can’t understand that babies don’t cry because they want to be irritating or anything like that. They just can’t really communicate when they’re uncomfortable any other way.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow at her and she huffed. 

“I’ve spent enough time around Victoire and Teddy to know that. Though Teddy also tends to turn his hair orange when he’s mad, so that’s another form of communication. Now, hush and watch the movie!” 

Draco looked as if he was going to protest, but thought better of it, and turned back to the screen, settling more against his pillow. As the movie went on, the two of them shifted and turned, getting more and more comfortable, until Ginny was practically laying down, just her head propped up by a stack of pillows, and Draco was sprawled through his entire half of the fort, his head propped up on one hand, though it occasionally rested on the other end of Ginny’s pillow, in a movement that neither of them ever spoke of.

“I swear to Merlin, if they say something like the power of friendship…” 

“That’s… that’s not what goblins look like at all.” 

“You said this was Granger’s favorite movie as a kid? That explains a lot.” 

“Idiot! Why would you go that way?!” 

“I don’t think they can hear you, Ginny.” 

They were reaching the end now, giggling even as the stakes grew higher, pointing out the very Hogwarts-like nature of the staircases and agreeing that they were glad Hogwarts had at least never turned them upside-down, when the Goblin King turned his attention to Sarah, and Ginny felt a shiver run down her spine. 

“ _Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave_.”

She felt Draco flinch next to her, his head resting on the pillow, and Ginny turned her head to look at him, ignoring the fluttering feeling in her stomach at how close their faces were.

“I’ve changed my mind, I don’t like him very much at all,” Draco said, his tone nonchalant but the hoarseness of his voice belying his calm demeanor. Ginny nodded, wrapping her blanket around her more tightly.

“He reminds me of…” 

She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence, but she felt an arm reach out to tentatively wrap around her shoulder as Draco scooted slightly closer. “I know,” he finished, that same hoarseness in his voice. They stayed like that for a minute, ignoring Sarah’s triumph as they were both lost in memory, before Draco’s eyes flew open, looking intently at Ginny’s face. “Ginny, I know we haven’t really talked about it, but I’m sor—” 

“Ginny?” 

Hermione’s voice echoed through the apartment, and both Draco and Ginny jerked, even as Hermione’s face appeared in the doorway. 

“Ginny, I’m sorry, but I think I dropped something from my bag when I was here earlier and—oh!” 

The brunette stopped in the doorway, blushing furiously as she caught sight of Ginny and Draco in their blanket fort, frantically scrambling to sit up and put some distance between the two of them. As Draco tried to scoot his way back to a sitting position, he kicked out with one of his long legs, knocking a pillow from its charmed position, and sending the whole structure collapsing down on top of them. 

“I’m _so_ sorry!” Hermione cried out, waving her wand to try to untangle the blankets from the pair. Ginny was laughing now, chuckles that escalated into peals of hysterical laughter when she peeked her head out of the pile of blankets to see a very disgruntled-looking Draco, wrapped in her mum’s latest red monstrosity, with normally immaculate hair now wild and staticky. Hermione was torn between fighting the urge to laugh and sheer horror as Malfoy turned his glare on her, before he finally looked over at Ginny and his gruff demeanor dissolved into laughter as well. 

“Your hair is _hopeless_ ,” he managed to get out between laughs, pointing at Ginny, who, she acknowledged as she reached a hand up to touch her hair, had what could be charitably described as a rat’s nest of tangles on top of her head after her struggles with the blankets and Hermione’s less-than-helpful charms, which had just pulled and twisted the blankets further. She tried to think of a rejoinder, but was distracted by the appallingly delightful sight of Draco Malfoy, laughing gleefully, looking relaxed and actually happy, and she found herself at a loss for words and breath, just left to look at him and smile. 

She was distracted by Hermione’s awkward cough, thankfully before Draco could notice her smiling at him like some moon-eyed puppy dog, and they both turned to watch as a very pink Hermione just muttered, “I’ll just, I’ll—leave you—so sorry—accio planner—sorry, sorry,” and disappeared with a pop. 

Draco turned to her, cheeks pink and eyes shining from laughter, and raised a brow. “Good idea, having her come back to pick something up so she could see us together.” 

“Er, right,” Ginny said, biting back the urge to correct Draco’s misunderstanding. It really didn’t make a difference, and he seemed to really think it was a good idea, and she should take credit for it, even if it somehow felt like it… cheapened what had been a good night between the two of them. And if Ginny spent the rest of the night, through Draco helping her put the bed to rights again and leaving through the Floo to go back to his own flat, thinking about how nights between her and Draco Malfoy, spent hanging out as part of some kind of ploy to make Harry jealous, had become something that was genuine enough to be cheapened, well, she didn’t say a word about those thoughts to Draco himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Labyrinth. They watched Labyrinth. If you haven't watched Labyrinth, please remedy that. :) I promise you will enjoy. And I just had to get in my personal headcanon that straight-laced Hermione Granger was obviously a giant fan of stories about headstrong girls who do impossible things, especially since she was a girl doing impossible magic things.


End file.
